


The Hand of the Queen

by the_impatient_panda



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Continuation, F/F, F/M, Fixing the Shit, Friends to Lovers, Gen, PTSD like symptoms, River of Time, The Three-Eyed Raven, Visions, past sexual trauma, slowburn, why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 05:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29621436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_impatient_panda/pseuds/the_impatient_panda
Summary: In which there is a thinly plausible reason Margaery is not dead, and Bran has a vision that leads the former Queen of Westeros north. Angst, feels, fluff and eventually a happy ending ensues. There is some light smut, but while this should have included a LOT more, I lost steam before we could get there and what you have is what you got.WARNING: INCOMPLETE! There are sections that are basically complete, sections that are skeleton notes, and a whole lot that's somewhere in between. Time gets a bit wonky because trying to figure out the passage of time WHEN THE SEASONS ARE INCONSISTENT is really, really hard. Love or hate at your own risk.
Relationships: Brienne of Tarth/Jamie Lannister, Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	1. Part 1

Margaery stood among the huddled masses below, well-wrapped in her thin cloak and bolstered on either side by fellow assistants of the volunteer hospital. 

Figure this out. Insinuate Margeary barely escaped the blast, ended up in a hospital for the poor. Ended up staying with an opportunity to run never presented itself. Name a few of her companions. There is to be an announcement today. It's been a hard winter (somewhere it says how long) and with the advent of spring it seems things will finally be resolved. The Unsullied have at least kept the population more or less fed, and helped with repairs through the city. They have remained firmly in control, however. Margeary did not mean to become someone important in the hospital, but she is good at organizing and inspiring people, so that’s what she does. Now that whatever has been decided is to be announced, she was dragged with some others to hear it.

Then she spots her.

Sansa Stark is alive. And is to be crowned Queen in the North.

The others cheer when appropriate, and for just a moment Margaery feels a tug. A pull. She could-

No. She doesn’t deserve that life anymore.

They enjoy the food passed around, and go back to work.

Work comes as the Dothraki and the Unsullied leave. Margaery listens, but says nothing.

Until the King comes to visit.

Margaery stays in the back, determined to be out of his way and out of his sight. She recognizes Brienne and Pod, who accompany the King. The King shakes hands, accepts many thanks for his generosity. She is pulled forward to be introduced, and he greets her as ‘Margaery’ not “Megga’. Margaery carefully corrects him, and he apologizes. Moves on. Then later, there is a moment where they are somewhat alone together. 

“You know.”

“I do.” Too calm a smile.

“What do you want?”

“To help my sister.” Blinks. “Queen Sansa Stark of the North.”

Margaery is floored by that.

“If you wish to help her as well, ask for Tammon Tabor at the palace gates. But it is up to you.” He leaves. The hospital flourishes. She continues to work quietly in the background.

Two weeks pass before she gives into the curiosity.

The walk to the palace is a long one, and she almost reconsiders multiple times. But her feet take her onwards. The palace is almost finished being reconstructed, and it looks...Strange. Too clean. Too new and perfect. 

After a pause, she goes to the servants entrance, it seems safer and makes her request.

A serving lady appears and takes Margaery deeper in. Even when the passage of time (5 years? 6? She lost track) It looks familiar and not. Half expects to see Cersei or Ser Barristan or even _____ coming around a corner at any moment.

And then Tyrion comes around a corner. Hand of the King.

Despite being out of practice, Margaery drops a perfectly correct cursty with the serving lady and makes it three steps further down the hall.

“...wait.”

Margaery pauses, and turns back to the still-disconcerting gaze of the Imp.

“...Lady Margaery?”

“Lord Hand,” she replied, unsure what else there was to say.

“By the Seven, I thought-”

“Yes, my lord.”

Well, I have a great many questions but I suppose the only one that truly matters is this: what are you doing here?”

“To ask why the King believes I am in any position to help his sister, the Queen of the North.”

“A questions that piques my curiosity as well. I believe I shall accompany you.” To the page. “Tell Lord Drummond I will join him shortly. Present him with a Dornish wine to keep him company while he waits.”

“Yes, my lord.” Runs off.

“Shall we?” To the serving lady.

THey don’t chat, Tyrion seems content with silence. They come to a room in the Royal apartments. It's set up like an office, and inside is King Bran and Brienne of Tarth in her ceremonial armor as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Brienne is surprised to see Tyrion, Bran is not.

Tyrion says something about destiny, and Bran calmly corrects him ‘one branch of many in the stream of time’. 

Margaery breaks in politely but firmly. She wants to know what’s going on. Tyrion and Brienne defer to Bran.

Bran explains his ability to ‘swim’ in the river of time, to see things that have happened and catch glimpses of things that could or will happen. Usually, he steers the river. Sometimes, it steers him.

He saw Margaery befriendly Sand. Trying to help her. To save her. 

Margaery grows very quiet and still. Then finally, “That was a very different time, and I was a very different person.” Shrug of her shoulders that draws attention to her peasant clothes and unadorned face.

“And yet, I saw a possible life for you in the North.”

“What sort of life?”

“A good one, I believe. A fulfilling one, where you were useful and appreciated for your mind as much as your face.”

“And you can promise...”

“There is no promise. Only a possibility. Each decision, each turning of the many branches of the river, bending in ways we cannot see until we are already beyond the curve and rejoining or never to join again in ways that defy logic and yet-”

“Bran,” Brienne, gently, recalling him to the present.

The King refocuses, and Margaery shivers. She believes.

“...I am not sure that it is wise for me to go, your grace.”

“Why not?” Bran, distantly curious.

“I am not sure that I am worthy to help anyone. Let alone a Queen.” Quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Tyrion, finally speaking up. “You do not believe you are-”

“Worthy.” Margaery, sharply. “I am sure you at least, Lord Hand, can appreciate wanting to escape a lifetime of scheming. Everyone I loved, save a few possibly spread to the far distant corners of Westeros, are dead. And it's without a doubt because we could not stop ourselves from reaching for  _ more _ .” Bitterly.

“OH, the irony.” Tyrion, to himself. Margaery glares at him. “Forgive me, my lady, but that is nearly word for word what I told his grace when he appointed me Hand.”

“Were you asked to give up a place in which you found use? A purpose?”

“...no. I was dragged out of a cell I’d spent 3 years in, expecting to be executed every single time the sun rose.”

“The choice is still yours.” Bran, gently.

“And what is it I will be doing, precisely, in the North?”

“Whatever the Queen decides, but what I will suggest is that she makes you her Hand.”

Margaery is glad she is not the only one gaping like a fish.

“Your grace,” Brienne. “Queen Sansa will not-”

“I am aware, Lord Commander, she is still my elder sister.” A touch dryly. “But I do not know that she will have a choice.” A touch dryly. “But I do not know that she will have a choice.”

“Surely, there are men among the Lords of the North-”

“Precious few, I am afraid.” Bran, seriously. “Between the various wars and the incursion of the Night King from the North, many of the Houses are diminished or simply gone. Indeed, three of the greater halls sit entirely empty at this time, as the Queen has yet to decide who to hand them to.”

“That does not-”

“And those lords and ladies who have survived are looking to their own lands first, leaving my sister to handle the business of ruling the North and managing Winterfell alone.”

“You two were not the only Starks to survive.”

“No, we were not. But Arya felt the call to travel, and Jon was banished North to the Wall and beyond.” Seeing with eyes that peer too deeply. “You have done very well at the hospital. But your training was intended to prepare you to manage...greater things.”

Figure this out. End with Bran deciding she has three weeks to decide. Tyrion offers her the alternative as returning to Highgarden- as Bronn’s bride. He needs one, and Tyrion has a feeling Margaery could handle him very nicely. Either way, to ensure the hospital does not fail in her absence, the crown will support it and see to its needs.

Margaery leaves by the servants quarters and heads back. It is late evening by the time she returns, tired and hungry and dusty.

It takes a few days, letting things tumble end over end in her mind. Eventually, she takes it to their Leader. Brother something or other.

She has a friend with powerful connections, from her old life. Wants her to go North, to help them rebuild. Has connections in the palace, and has promised crown support to make up for stealing her away.

“When are you leaving?”

She’s shocked.

He admits that he’s expecting something like this for years. He was the one undressed her at first, the ruined silks and fine linens. A highborn lady for sure. But she chose not to return, and she was actually useful so he let her stay. Asks why she wishes to stay.

It's...comfortable.

He tells her that unless it is for her own safety, she should go. The patronage will do wonders, and whatever she’s hiding from needs to be faced.

Margaery agrees.

The next day, she packs up and says goodbye and heads for the palace. 

This time, the meeting is about the specifics. She has chosen to go North- for now. If Sansa doesn’t want her there, what then? She’ll come back south with the party (six week stay), and consider other options. Could stay at the palace as a liaison with the people. 

She’s good at that. Or even take up Tyrion’s offer with Bronn. He’s one of those going North to negotiate, so they’ll have time to travel together and discuss things.

Margaery agrees. Brienne protests about going along, and Bronn reminds her how long its been since she was there. Also that someone needs to keep Sansa from murdering him for being too impudent.

“Then you are giving me an impossible task, your grace.”

“As impossible as finding and protecting the last Stark?”

“...your grace.” Giving in.

Margaery is given over to a serving lady. She needs clothes for the journey north (for even in the summer, the North is colder than the South). Brienne actually shudders thinking of it.

The next two days are a whirl of measurements and preparations. It finishes, and suddenly she finds herself with nothing to do but sit on her hands for 2ish weeks. 

She considers her options, and decides to go find Brienne.

The Lord Commander is in her private chambers, looking over some letters, when a serving girl announces Margaery. 

“Lady Margaery,” Standing as she enters. “Is there something you require?”

“Merely company, but I see you are busy. I will leave you to it.”

“There is no need. I was merely rereading some personal letters.”

“Then...if you are sure?”

“Yes, my lady. Please, sit.” A small collection of simple but well-made chairs to one side around a table. “Tea, wine?”

“Tea, please.” Brienne motions to the serving girl, who leaves. “You, of course, can partake if you wish. Do not deprive yourself on my account.”

“No, tea will be fine. These days, I generally reserve such things for formal occasions and-”

Her door bursts open.

“Big girl!” Bronn, happily from the door. “Guess who found  _ actual Northern Ale _ -!”

“Also known as horse piss,” Tyrion, on his heels bringing two bottles of wine. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t actually want to share and I’ve an excellent- oh.”

The two men are staring at the two women, like boys with their hands in the cookie jar.

“Is it that night, then?” Brienne, dryly. “I seem to have lost track of my days.”

“Do we need to skip a week?” Tyrion, bowing to Margaery. “Lady Margaery.”

“Lord Hand.” Amused. “I can go if-”

“Please don’t, a new face to get soused with would be a delight.” Bronn, thumping on the cask on the table and bowing with a flourish. “I am Lord Bronn, Master of Coin and Warden of the-”

“She will not be impressed by your nonsense, Bronn. She’s an actual Lady.” Brienne, cutting in. “Lady Margaery, I can remove them from the room if you were hoping for a quieter-”

“It’s fine, Lord Commander-”

“Oh, no, that’s breaking the rules.” Tyrion, already pouring himself a cup. “Tonight, no titles. Brienne, Bronn, Tyrion and Margaery.” Ironic. “We find it helps keep us humble.”

“For some better than others.” Brienne, eyeing Bronn who has breached the cask and is pouring mugs grabbed from a cabinet. “Bronn, that is not Northern Ale-”

“Is fucking so! Bought it off a farmer-”

“I’ve been to the North, Bronn, I lived there for four years.” Taking a sniff. “Whatever this is, it is not Northern Ale.”

“Yeah? Well so’ve I and I say it's Northern Ale.” Take’s a deep swig. “Now that hits the fucking spot.”

“Bronn...” Brienne, warningly as she looks at Margaery.

“Do not concern yourself on my account.” Margaery, quickly. “I have been in Flea Bottom for six years, I very much doubt it is possible to shock me anymore.”

  
“Now that is a story I would love to hear.” Tyrion, settling in his chair. It has a pull-out footstool so his legs don’t dangle uncomfortably.

“...perhaps another time.”

Brienne draws the conversation somewhere else, and Tyrion and Bronn quickly follow. It's like listening to three old soldiers, talking about how things were before and how things have changed. People they miss.

Bronn, “Oi, big girl, you got another letter from Queenie? How’s the brat doing?”

“Do not call my son a brat, Bronn, or I will toss you out the window. And you know I could.”

“You’d have to fucking catch me first.” Unconcerned. “Well?”

“I did, yes. He’s doing well.”

“Good.”

“You have a son?” Margaery, first time she’s spoken in awhile.

“...yes.” Blinking as though she’d forgotten Margaery was there. “He was born during the long winter at Winterfell, and is being fostered by the Queen. Not many are aware he is mine, though, so...”

“I will not tell no one. Though I thought the Kingsguard could not wed.”

“They cannot.”

A pause.

“Well, I suppose the only other way I could possibly make this worse is wonder why if its a secret you would choose to tell these two-”

“Oi! I object to that! I c’n keep a fucking secret if I want to.”

“I’m the boy’s uncle,” Tyrion simply. Watching Margaery carefully.

You can see the gears turning, the realization, the glance at Brienne who is now blushing furiously.

“...well done, you.” Taking a drink of the wine Tyrion poured her a while ago. “Though you were far too good for him.”

Brienne chokes on her ale as Tyrion laughs and Bronn shoots, “He was alright! For a shit-eating lordling.”

“Eloquent as ever, Bronn.” Tyrion, pouring another.

“Oh fuck off little man.”

“Witty too.” Rolling his eyes.

“What’s your son’s name?” To Brienne.

“Selwyn, after my father.”

“A fine name.”

“Show her the little shit’s picture, you know you want to.”

“Bronn...” Warning.

“Fine, fine.” Pouring himself another drink. Brienne leaves the table ,and comes back with a small portrait.

It's a young boy, with golden brown hair and piercing blue eyes like Brienne. Sturdy, like Brienne.

“He’s beautiful. You must miss him terribly.”

“I do.” Sitting it aside. “The letters help. He is learning to write, and promises soon to be sending letters of his own. The Queen is very kind to him.”

“And that’s enough sap for one evening or you’re going to make big girl go all weepy on us again.” Bronn, topping off her drink. 

“Fuck you.”

“I’ve offered, you said no.” Bronn grinning. 

Brienne groans, Tyrion laughs.

The topic changes.

“As I recall, you were an avid rider Margaery,” Tyrion, over his wine. “That’s good.”

“I was, yes.” Curious. “Why?”

“They are riding the entire way to the North,” Tyrion replied, glancing at Brienne. “No one told you?”

“But...this is a state visit. You’ll need attendants, servants, clothes-”

“The North shits on such finery,” Bronn, mouth half full of some roasted meat. “And it’ll already take _____ fuckin’ weeks with long days and two mounts for everyone. Bring carts, we won’t make it for two months. 

“...oh.” A little surprised. “Well, then it is a good thing I was a very good horseman indeed.”

“Just to be clear...when was the last time you rode a horse?” Brienne gently.

Six years. 

Tyrion exchanges looks with Brienne, and he promises to arrange for her to begin practicing the very next day, if she so chooses. Brienne supports the idea. Bronn says she can always ride in his lap if she gets tired, pumping his hips suggestively. 

Margaery decides a little practice may not be a bad thing.

It is far into the night when Tyrion finally calls it, dragging Bronn away so they can both get some sleep.

“I’ll escort you back to your rooms, my lady.” Brienne, as the serving girl clears everything away.

“That isn’t necessary.” Rising.

“A brisk walk will help me sleep after drinking that much. So you will in fact be doing me a favor.”

“Then I accept.”

Margaery sleeps well for the first time since coming to the palace, and after breakfast the next day finds a riding dress waiting for her. She heads immediately to the stables, accompanied by a guard. Someone older, very relaxed, but an excellent horseman. Has her show off her skills, gives her pointers and cuts her off far earlier than she thinks is necessary. She’s a little sore, but brushes it off. Does the stretches that evening. Goes to bed.

Wakes up _ hurting _ .

Does the stretches again, makes it down to the stable. The old fellow looks surprised.

“You either like pain or are very stubborn, my lady.” Bluntly.

She doesn’t reply as she heaves herself unsteadily into the saddle.

But the time ‘drink night’ rolls around again, she is able to walk without wondering if her legs are about to fold every other step. The blessing has been she has been too tired and sore to care about her isolation from everyone else, the curse is she is so very, very tired and sore. She’s only had dinner with King Bran twice, both times awkward and distant though he did make a concerted effort to remain in the ‘present’. He speaks of searching for a dragon and the splitting streams of time. She wonders how much his mind is actually in the present anymore.

She arrives at Brienne’s quarters, and the Lord Commander gives her a wry smile.

“Lady Margaery, are you sure this is what you want to do? I promise, they both get worse the longer you’ve known them.”

“Just Margaery, as I believe that is one of the rules. What are the others if I may ask?”

She gets the feeling as Brienne lists them out that the rest were designed simply to keep Bronn in check and seem oddly specific at times. 

“No whores?” she repeated with a ghost of a smile. “Male or female?”

“Both. Bronn’s idea, so -in his words- they could fuck eachother if we didn’t want them but still wanted to watch.” Rolling her eyes. “Thankfully Tyrion backed me on that one.”

As if summoned, the man himself appeared, Bronn at his side toting a small cask.

“And what poison are we imbibing tonight?” Brinne, dourly.

“An exceptionally fine apple brandy. To commemorate our final evening of revelry before your impossibly long journey and abandonment of me.”

Brienned frowned. “He moved the dinner?”

“Yes, his grace wishes Heida Martel to attend, and she is leaving the next morning for Dorne. Which, incidentally, is now your departure date as well.” Waving at hand at Brienne as she starts to rise. “Yes, I have already informed the necessary parties and I have been assured that it shall complicate nothing.”

“...very well.” Sighing.

“No more work talk. You know the rules.” Handily breaching the cask. “Hello, little bird, Come to play again?”

“It seems so.” Accepting the glass he hands her. Takes a cautious sip. It burns smoothly all the way down. It is exceptional and potent. She will have to be mindful of that.

“Bronn, behave.” Brienne.

“If she wanted me to behave she wouldn’t’ve fucking come.” Licking his lips suggestively.

“Please, Bronn, I am a proper lady.” The old facades feel far too familiar. They come back more easily than her horse riding prowess.

“Right, and I’m the bloody king.” Rolling his eyes as he settles in.

“A drink this fine deserves a game.” Tyrion. “What shall we play? Truth or lies? I have never?”

“Plinks. I’m great at plinks.” Bronn.

“No.” Brienne, rolling her eyes. “You are not throwing a knife in my private rooms while drunk.”

“What, then?”

“Capture.” Tyrion, hopping from his seat.

“One on one?”

“No, free for all.” Tyrion. “We have four, its perfect.

Modified pente. Every time a pair of your colored stones is captured, you drink. The board is small, if you manage to ‘lock’ in a pair, you can force someone else to drink. If you manage to place the last game piece, everyone else has to drink. Margaery quickly catches on and manages to neatly hold her own. Thankfully, just about the time she would beg off Bronn almost falls asleep on the table and Tyrion calls a guard to help escort him back to his rooms. Loudly declaring he was drunk under the table by two women and a dwarf.

Margaery starts to stand- and promptly sits again, the room spinning. 

“Ah-”

“Are you alright, Margaery?” Brienne, clearing away the game pieces.

“Yes, yes i just...” Tries to stand again. “-no. No, I think I had a touch too much brandy.”

“Right. Well, let’s start with some water, shall we?” Pouring her a drink. “Sip that, but get down as much as you can.” Pulls out a tin of biscuits. “And nibble on these. Two or three would be best, but at least one will still help.”

Margaery manages two glasses and two biscuits. Ends up staying the night. Watching Brienne remove her armor as she lies in the bed is strange. 

“Do you wear it every day?”

“Of course. I must be ready to protect the King at all times.”

She notices her sword is still accessible, and she sleeps in shirt and trousers. Margaery is suitably impressed. Also how much the bed sinks when Brienne gets in.

“Seven help me, you really are solid muscle through and through.” Touching Brienne’s arm. The Lord Commander flames bright red. “I made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry. I-...my grandmother liked you a great deal. She spoke of you often, after you left Kings Landing.”

“She was a kind, gracious lady.”

“Only to those she admired, and she admired you greatly.” Touching Brienne’s face.

Brienne stops her gently.

“Margaery.” Carefully, gently. “Would it be fair to assume that your...inclinations are much like your brothers? And Renly’s?”

“If that is a roundabout way of asking if I prefer my own sex...yes.”

“Ah.” Rueful smile. “I’m sorry, but I do not.”

This time Margaery is the one flaming red.

“Can we chalk it up to too much brandy and pretend this didn’t happen?” Weakly.

“Yes, we can.” Gently tucking her in. “And now that it comes to mind, I wished you to know...I avenged Renly.”

“...Stannis Baratheon? You-”

“Yes. I found him, after a great battle, and I gave Renly the justice he deserved.”

“Thank you.” Blinks. “I didn’t love him the way you or Loras did, but...he was dear to me. In his own way. I heard that Stannis was dead, of course, but I never knew-” Cut off by a yawn. 

“Go to sleep, Lady Margaery.”

“No, just...just Margaery.” Another yawn. “We can be friends, right?” Hating how desperate she sounds. How desperate she is for just one friend.

“...yes, of course.” A small sigh, but Margaery thinks she can see a smile in the dim light. “Go to sleep, Margaery.”

“Good night, Brienne.”

“Good night.”

The last week is mostly preparation. Margaery notices as her new clothes come in they are mostly in Tyrell shades, but without the rose motifs or any floral embroidery at all. They are finely made, but not especially stylish or elaborate. In some ways, she’s glad. In others..she misses pretty things.

She has dinner with Brienne twice before they leave. More relaxed. Brienne speaks a great deal about her son. Describe more later.

Then it's the farewell feast.

Margaery has largely been ignored by the other lords and ladies, but now word of who she is travels through the guests like wildfire. It does not help that she wears a headpiece like Oleana used to. It makes her easy to spot.

She sits by Bran through the meal, and is perfectly polite and correct.

The next morning, they leave.

Bran watches the party travel away from the top of the wall, Tyrion with him on a box.

“With this, I have used my abilities in a way I have never done so before.”

“In what way is that, your grace?”

“Matchmaking.”

“...I have a great many questions.”

“As do I. Alas, we shall both have to simply wait and see.”

“...of course, your grace.”

The travel is split into sections. With the small party all mountedc, they’re able to make decent progress every day on the road. All the same, Margaery is very sore the first week or so.

“If its any consolation, I think you’re doing quite well.” Brienne, one night as she helps the smaller woman dismount. It would be humiliating with anyone else.

“A little, yes. But not enough to comfortably sleep.”

Brienne gives her some liniment that helps with that, a little.

When they aren’t pushing late, Brienne trains with Bronn./ He’s a bit slapdash at first (he got lazy being a lord) but quickly gets back into form. He frequently has a wench or two sent to his rooms each night at their stops.

A few weeks in, he comes to sit with her. It's by the fire while Brienne sees to something. 

“Tyrion said something’ quite interestin’ before we left.” Thoughtful pause. “That you considered marryin’ me instead a comin’ North.”

“That is not strictly accurate, my lord.”

“But it was a possibility.”

“...yes.”

“See, I think you and I might suit one another alright.”

“And why is that, my lord?” Pointed.

“Because, my lady, you don’t bat an eye when I find a nice armful for the night. And neither will I, whoever you decide to cozy up to.” Shrugs. “The first brat’ll have t’be mine, but after that...”

“That’s an eloquent argument, my lord. I shall keep it in mind.” Cooly. Eyes focused across the room to Brienne.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Glancing back at him.

“You prefer...” Leading glance.

“My lord?” Feigning innocence.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Like brother, like sister, eh?”

“I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”

“Right.” Brienne walks in. “Y’know, I thought big girl might, at first. Dressin’ in armor, and swingin’ a sword. Funny how that works out.”

“People surprise you.”

“Not fuckin’ really.” Scratching his chin. “Is that your thing? Big and muscley?”

“...tall.” Pointed look.

“Just...tall?”

“Taller than me.”

“Ah.” Thinking. “Wolf Queen is tall.”

“Is she...?” A little too quickly. 

He grins.

“Well, think on it. If the North isn’t...tall enough for you, we could probably come to a ‘mutually beneficial arrangement’.” Proud of that.

“I will do so, my lord.”

He leaves. Brienne approaches, and Margaery assures her that its fine. Bronn was just being Bronn.

They continue on. They travel with an escort of five guards, which is small but as Brienne explains all but one are armed, they only have 3 pack animals and they have no easily discernible wealth present. It makes them an unwise target, for most folks with ill intent.

Then, one day they stop at noon, at a small outpost. Margaery is confused. 

“We’re waiting for our guide.” Brienne. “And giving man and beast a break before the worst tomorrow.”

“...worst?” Concerned.

“We’re taking a short-cut.” Bronn, sneering. “I’d rather wade in shit and piss, but-”

“Lord Bronn.” Brienne, sternly.

“Yes, Lord Commander?” Barely respectful.

Brienne rolls her eyes and lets it drop.

“There’s a road,” Margaery pointed out lamely, motioning to it off to the right as though it should be obvious for all to see. “And if I remember correctly, it goes straight north. Why...?”

“It’s an uncanny gift the Reeds have,” Brienne said with eyes that refused to meet hers. “They can move through their swamps on donkeys faster than men on horses by the road. The Queen offered us the gift of this passage, and I accepted on our behalf-”

“Without fuckin’ asking’ the rest, I might add!” Bronn, still grumbling.

“It will cut at least a week from our travel time.”

“We’re on the road for two more fuckin’ weeks, who gives a fuck about one more?!”

“-a week we may lose if there’s a late freeze or bad storms once we’re on the other side.”

“I’m sorry, I thought we were officially in summer.” Margaery, looking worried.

“Yeah, but once you’re north of the Neck, it takes near a fuckin year to set in. And even then, it c’n freeze overnight an drop a shit ton of rain on you, year after that. Fuckin’ north. And these fuckers? They’re not only bat-shit crazy enough t’live in the North, they chose the gods-be-damned  _ swamp _ -”

“Bronn, always a pleasure.”

The ex-sellsword jumps, and Margaery feels her heart leap to her throat at the sight of the woman now standing before them. She guesses she’s younger than herself, but carries herself with the comfortable air of command. A glance around shows a dozen others scattered about, wearing the same blended green clothes with bows on their backs and long knives at their hips. 

Brienne speaks to Meera, mentions the King. Meera goes cold. Margaery files that way for later. Also that Bronn is genuinely intimidated by the woman, and desperately trying to hide it. It makes him more obnoxious than normal. 

Brienne advises going to sleep early, and Margaery does so.

The next day is even more grueling than promised. They leave at dawn, and travel well into dark. Their first stop is a small series of huts they crowd into. Margaery sleeps curled against Brienne’s back. This doesn’t change for two more days. On the 4th day, they make it to the castle.

Describe. Baths and a hot meal for everyone. The castle has a fey feel to it, and Margaery doesn’t wonder to travel with them all the way to Winterfell. They’re part of the negotiation.

Margaery feels less dead, but the next day is back to the swamp. Two days later, they’re emerging from the other side, free of the swamp. Stop at a small crofthold, trade the donkeys for horses and continue North. Meera brings 2 men with her. Their party is now 10. They are now sleeping rough off the road every other day or so, the settlements growing further and further apart as they go. Twice they stay in abandoned farm houses.

Margaery is a bit taken with Meera, even if she’s not quite tall enough. Realizes to try for anything would be stupid, but does try to befriend the girl all the same and learn from her. Meera is like Brienne, more than a match for any of the men. Makes Margaery wonder if she’s remotely cut out for the North and all.

Brienne realizes this, and tells her the Queen doesn’t need people who can survive alone in the woods. The North is full of people who can do that. People who can organize others to get things done are in rarer supply.

“She’s very good at it herself, but she’s only one person.”

They go on.

Margaery still considers.

There is a cold beauty to the North. Simple. Harsh. Uncompromising.

Stark.

The thought makes her laugh.

“Care to share the joke, my lady?” Meera.

“I don’t think so, no.”

They continue to ride north.

Fill in with Meera occasionally asking oblique questions about the king. Margaery realizes there must be much more to this story and wonders what it is. She can tell it is not something she can just ask about, so she waits and wonders. 

Their final stop is at Cerwyn Hll. It is slightly off their path, but Meera and Brienne are both pleased to go. They know Lady Jonella well, and they are welcomed warmly by their homely host. Her husband is a minor lord, happy to sit in his wife’s shadow. A third son with no inheritance.

They were spotted a few hours out, word has already been sent ahead to Winterfell. But for now, they feast!

Bathed and dressed, Margaery is introduced to her first Northern Feast. The food and wine is not as fine as the south, but she finds herself enjoying the pleasant burn of the mead and the hearty, filling stew before her. 

The song and laughter goes late and increasingly bawdy once the lord and lady retire. Brienne heads to bed soon after, and suggests that Margaery do the same. She does so, but sleep does not come.

Until now, it hasn’t felt real. Tomorrow they will arrive. Tomorrow for the first time in...six? Seven years? She will see Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North.

When Meera comes in to wake her, she feels she’s hardly slept a wink.

“Is everything alright?” Meera, hearing her groan.

“...I don’t know.” Getting out of bed. She has no shame around Meera, not after traveling together and she or Brienne being the ones to escort her into the bushes whenever she needed to pee up here. Apparently bears and wolves are exceedingly common the farther north you go? “I suppose that entirely depends on what happens when we get to Winterfell.”

“Oh, that.” Rolling her eyes. “She’s not  _ that _ intimidating. It might help that I have memories of her playing in the mud as a child. But she’s just a woman, not some....warrior queen of eons past.”

“No, I’m afraid it's a bit more complicated than that. And to be honest, I have a hard time imagining her as intimidating. She was anything but that last time I saw her.” Clamping her mouth shut quickly.

“Oh?” Innocently curious. “I would have thought Margaery Tyrell, once queen of all of Westeros, would never find herself wrong footed in any situation.”

Whirling around, eyes wide. “How-”

“Tricked Bronn into it. Sorry. Something about your insistence you were nobody, sat wrong with me.”

“I  _ am _ nobody.”

“You don’t walk or talk like it.” Snorts. “Not many can speak to the Warden of the West and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard as comfortable equals.”

“...ah.” Of course. She should have thought of that.

“Don’t worry, though. I think it's a good plan. She certainly needs the help. It's half the reason I’m going myself. I’m only on loan from my father for three months, to assist through the first harvest.”

“That’s very generous of him.”

“That’s the wrong thing to say.”

“...pardon?”

“What could you possibly harvest up here is a much better response.” Cheeky grin. “Get ready, Lady Margaery. We’re leaving soon. And don’t worry about the Wolf Queen, they say she only bites when the moon is full.”

Meera leaves laughing, and Margaery hurries herself along.

  
Her words do  _ not _ make her feel better.


	2. Part 2

Thankfully, the ride to Winterfull is easy and almost warm.

Meera actually sheds her cloak and says she’s dying in the heat. Margeary can’t believe it. When they pass under trees, it is noticeably cooler and sometimes she shivers in the shadows with a stiff breeze.

There is no way she could possibly survive the North.

Of course, she’s not entirely certain it's the weather that freezes her marrow.

“Need me to be ready?” Bronn, with a cocky grin. 

“Ready for what?” As they see the castle come up over the hill.

“T’catch you when you pass out from not breathin’.” Winks.

Her cheeks heat, but she also steadies her breath. Focusing on it instead of their destination does help, though, and she is grudgingly grateful for the distraction.

Winterfell looks as though it was built 1,000 years ago, and will stand for 1,000 more. The guards have long since spotted them, and Margaery is surprised to realize three of the riders now bear banners. One for Meera, Bronn and Brienne each.

Despite their approach, there’s no fanfare to greet them.

“...no horn?” Bronn, frowning.

“I asked the Queen not to.” Brienne, smugly.

“But they’re my favorite bit!”

“I know.” Smiles. “You’re welcome.”

Margaery stifles a laugh. Meera doesn’t bother. 

Bronn is gobsmacked. Then pissed. Then-

“I dunno if I should be pissed at you for this or proud you thought of it. But either way, I can honestly say I’ve corrupted you. And there is some fucking satsifcation in that!”

“You have not.” Rolling her eyes.

“Fuckin’ have. Let me have my small victory, woman, you’ve already shit on my day. I’ve been looking forwards to this for weeks.”

“Very well.” Small, smug smile.

Brienne is still smiling when they arrive in the courtyard.

The cold prickle on her neck tells Margaery they have an audience, and unthinking her eyes turn to see Sansa on a walkway above.

‘Queen’ she reminds herself breathlessly. That is not a lost little dove you knew in Kingslanding. That is a Queen.

A Queen who only had eyes for Brienne of Tarth.

“Lady Brienne,” she called from her place above, a small smile on her face. “You made very good time.”

“Yes, your grace.” Brienne, bowing a little in the saddle. “And I brought-”

“I will greet them shortly, in the great hall. I am afraid other matters require my immediate attention, but I will return shortly.”

Brienne nods. “Your grace.”

But the queen has already disappeared from view.

-090-

First Sansa POV. She is excited and pleased to see Brienne. She knows her feelings for the older woman are not returned, and she has mostly made peace with that. But it still makes her warm and giddy to have such a dear friend returned to her after so long.

The ‘urgent’ matter is frustrating because it shouldn’t be her decision, but she has no one at hand she feels capable of making it unassisted. So, here she is doing minutia when she has a Kingdom to think about. 

She firmly decides not to think about that as she greets her guests. Sweeps into the hall, it is empty at this hour save her guests who are sharing horns of good, dark beer. 

Those are set aside as a page announces her.

Figure this out. She warmly greets Brienne, and then Meera. She’s surprised to see her so soon, but glad all the same. Meera explains her father’s decision and she is at the Queen’s disposal for at least three months. Sansa warmly welcomes her and her help.

To Bronn. She gives him his full title.

“Your grace is too kind to remember little old me.” Still smirking a bit. “And I have a feeling you might remember her, too.” Giving Margaery an unexpected shove forward.

Not anticipating it, she stumbles...and is caught by the Queen.

Bronn apologizes handsomely, but no one is paying attention to him. 

Sansa blinks.

“Margaery?”

Unsure what else to say, the former Tyrell hesitates, then carefully extracts herself and curtsies deeply. “Your grace.”

“I thought...reports said you were in the Sept of Balor when...”

“I escaped, barely.” Unable to look up at her. “But was injured in doing so. By the time I was well enough to return, things were...drastically different. So I hid.”

“A wise decision.” Softly. “Though I am curious why-” Obvious answer as her eyes alight on Bronn. “Of course. You are here with Lord Bronn. Are congratulations in order?”

“No, your grace.” A bit more sharply than she meant. 

“I did offer,” Bronn stuck in helpfully before she could explain. “She said no.”

“And one cannot blame her.” Cooly to Bronn, who just smirks back at her. “We will have to speak of that later, though. Brienne, there is someone very excited to see you who has waited long enough. He is in my solar now. Everyone else, be welcome. My people will show you to your rooms, and if you have need of anything please ask.”

Meera slips off to begin her work, warns Margaery not to go wandering. The keep is old and winding, it can be easy to get lost until you know your way around. Someone will come to get her for dinner, so she should rest until then.

“So, is she as ‘tall’ as you remember?” Bronn, pointed, as he allows himself to be taken to his rooms as well.

Margaery elbows him neatly. Then “...taller.”

Much taller.

Shit.

-090-

Sansa with Brienne seeing young Selwyn. If he was born during the long winter, he’s probably about 4. He may not exactly remember his mother, but he quickly warms back up to her. Sansa hangs back and soaks in the cuteness. Selwyn tells her she was right, his mother is a knight! Calls her Aunt Sansa.

Brienne tries to correct him, and Sansa overrules her. She has no other nieces or nephews, and it is her honor to spoil Selwyn a little. There are other children in the keep, quite a few actually. Several left without parents or caretakers. Sansa has all of them living and learning communally. For now. 

-090-

Dinner that night. It is a feast in the visitors’ honor, and her guests join her at the high table. Meera and Brienne to one side, Margaery and Bronn to the other.

Margaery feels the prickling from before, and glances up to find herself being studied by piercing blue eyes. 

“...your grace?”

“How do you find the North, Lady Margaery? It is rather different from Kingslanding. Or Highgarden.”

“Yes, it is.” Setting aside her fork. “I believe the first word that comes to mind, though, is cold. Especially given how advanced into Summer the south is.”

Sansa laughs, and Margaery feels her face grow uncomfortably warm.

“Oh-no! That is more at myself, I promise. Before your arrival, I was lamenting to someone else that the summer has grown so warm....(figure something out). One long winter and a few years and I have already forgotten what a true summer feels like.”

“I am not sure I could ever forget.”

“Perhaps not. But bearing the cold does get easier with time, even for Southron flowers.” Glancing to her other side. “The Lord Commander was nearly able to withstand the cold as well as those born to it, by the end.”

“Nearly being the important word.” Mildly. “And my body had little choice. It was adapt or freeze at one point.”

“They say it gets so cold, if ye take a piss outdoors it lands as ice. That true?”

Brienne groans.

“It is true.” Sansa, calmly. “It is also true that by the time you’re finished, your cock will be frozen through and likely break off. I encourage you to try it sometime, Lord Bronn, it would be a gift to womankind everywhere.”

Margaery’s laugh is scandalized, and Bronn’s hardy.

Brienne just sighs.

“Your grace.” Serving lady to the side. “It is time.”

“Ah.” Standing, the hall goes silent. Speech about welcome and honored guests, and to enjoy themselves in her absence. Invites Brienne to follow her.

“Where are you going, your grace? If I may ask?” Margaery.

“Bedtime for the children.You are still welcome to stay and enjoy. I understand things tend to get a bit more lively after I leave, but Meera will see no one bothers you unless you wish it.” Pointed look at Bronn.

“Will you return soon?”

“And spoil everyone’s fun? No.” Shaking her head. “Besides, there is still work to be done.”

“May I go with you?”

A brief pause. “...If you like.” Motioning with her head to follow. So Margaery does. She falls in line behind Brienne and Sansa, and tries not to be jealous at the way the pair speak intimately ahead of her.

The hall they arrive in looks new, with bunks stacked three high all around. There is a clear space in the center, with a large rug. The kids gather around Sansa, tugging on her dress. She addresses them by name, asking questions and answering her own in turn. They all sit together on the rug. Lady Brienne is also recognized, and a sturdy blonde boy quickly clambers into her lap. There is also a woman that they all call Nona Wells. She was from the south, traveled with one of the armies that came north. Joined Winterfell after everything went to shit, and ended up taking over the littles. Sansa doesn’t care who she served before, she is great with the kids and has been trustworthy thus far.

Sansa, as she settles in sitting on the rug. “So, what story-”

“She’s not sitting!” One of the boys, pointing at Margaery. “She has to sit. It's a rule.”

“Michal, what have you been told about interrupting?” Nona Wells.

Head bowed. “Sorry, Nona Wells. Sorry. Aunt Sansa?”

Margaery’s brows rise at that.

The boy puts his hand in the air.

“Yes, Michal?” Sansa, patiently.

“She’s not sitting, and we can’t have a story until everyone is sitting. It's a rule.”

“Yes, it is.” Sansa agreed quickly. “But, Lady Margaery is a guest.”

“But it's a rule.” Michal, stubbornly.

“Michal-” Nona Wells.

“I didn’t know it was a rule.” Margaery, smartly stepping forward. “And I wouldn't want to get in trouble breaking a rule in front of the Queen.”

Collective gasp.

Michal, gravely. “You broke another rule.”

Margaery looks at Sansa who is desperately trying not to laugh. 

“There seems to be an awful lot of rules for a bedtime story.” Settling beside Michal. “Are you going to help me not break anymore?”

Serious nod, then a finger to his lips, eyes going to Sana who has managed to compose herself. Brienne is grinning widely. 

It's someone’s turn to pick a story, and they do. Sansa tells it. When it's done, it's another child’s turn to be put to sleep by the Queen. In rotation, each child will get to pick a story to be told and get personal time with the Queen about every 10 days. The rest content themselves with hugs goodnight from Nona Wells and occasionally each other. Brienne tucks Selwyn in, hugs a few others, Margaery’s new friend, Michal, drags her over to tuck him in. Because he helped her so much so she didn’t get in trouble. She hides her smile, and thanks him seriously.

Nona Wells shoos them all out, and Sansa heads off with a sigh, clearly expecting Brienne to follow.

Brienne glances back and motions for Margaery to follow along. When Sansa realizes Brienne has paused, she turns back as well...and sees Margaery.

“...I suppose it would be best to do this now. In private. Come along, Lady Margaery. I would hear why you’ve come to Winterfell.”

What could Margaery do but follow.

She takes them to a study, and orders tea. Asks if they want anything else.

“Wine?” Margaery. “Or Ale?”

“She means tea.” Brienne cuts in, and the servant goes. Margaery gives her a look of betrayal.

“Do you know, Lady Margaery, that your grandmother had a singular impact on me.” Sansa, motioning them to take the closest seats to the fire. “Including how I take my tea.”

“...oh.” Understanding.

“I believe you will find it more...fortifying than wine or ale.” The tray arrives. Also a tray of biscuits and cookies. “Brienne, do you mind?”

“Not at all, your-”

“Brienne.” Fondly exasperated.

“Not at all, Sansa.” Busied herself with the tea things, and Margaery suddenly finds herself under the study of two piercing blue eyes. She accepts the cup when Brienne hands it to her, and takes a large swallow. Just manages not to choke on the burn.

Sansa sips her own. Sets it aside. “Well, Lady Margaery, as this was a bit too far to travel for a purely social visit: why are you in Winterfell?”

Add earlier Meera saying the North respects honesty, Margaery decides to go for broke.

“I have nowhere else to go.” Simply. “Not without selling a part of myself I no longer wish to sell.”

“You cannot go back wherever you’ve been the last 4 or 5 years? Why did you leave in the first place?”

“...you don’t know?” Glancing at Brienne, who looks guilty. 

“That is my fault, I was supposed to give this to you when we arrived.” Pulling a letter from her pocket. “I’m afraid it slipped my mind in my eagerness to see Selwyn, but that is no excuse. I should have-”

“You wished to see your son.” Sansa, sighing. “I...I will not fault you for that.” Opening the letter. “Pardon me, but...”

“By all means.” Margaery drinks more tea, then reaches for a biscuit. It is very different from what she’s used to, more savory than sweet. It pairs well with the ‘tea’. 

Sansa reads the letter through twice, then hands it to Brienne. “Is this true?”

Brienne reads it, then nods. “”To the best of my knowledge, yes. Though I cannot speak to when his...’vision’ occurred, nor when he chose to act on it. Nor what, specifically, he saw. He is as...cryptic as ever, in such things.”

“How do you stand it?” Amusement coloring her words. “I swear I nearly strangled him more than once through the long winter. The letter was, in fact, more straightforward than he usually is. Why then, Lady Margaery, did you accept his offer?”

“Because I realized my presence at the hospital was not nearly as valuable to them as being supported by the crown. Which was what was offered if I agreed to go to the North and offer my services to you instead.”

“And what services would those be?” Studying her closely. “Vital information? Important connections?”

“Hardly.” Lacing her fingers together, straightening her back. “I have been hiding in Kingslanding since the destruction of the Sept of Balor. I have no information, no contacts. I cannot even say I was that important to the hospital, for it was only given in accordance with my abilities.”

“Abilities?”

“Organizing supplies and people. Keeping track of what we had, what we needed, and what we could afford to trade away for other supplies. How to best make use of our space and efficiently see to our patients. Convincing people to work together instead of at cross purposes.” Elegant shrug. “After learning how to manage an estate at my grandmother’s knee, their needs were...simple.” A quiet pause. “I also finally understood how the scheming of lords and ladies truly affected the small folk.”

Sansa merely lifts her brows, leaning back in her seat slightly. Margaery feels the words almost pulled from her by the force of that look.

“...Cersei Lannister destroyed that sept because of my family. Yes I know we weren’t her only enemies inside, and the Sparrows were genuinely a problem for everyone. But at the end of it all...when the dust settled and the fires finally burned themselves out...it was the people who suffered most of all. People who she never met, people who wanted nothing more than a place to work and live in peace and safety with their families. They didn’t want our war. Nothing came of it that really benefited them.”

“And why do they matter?”

“Because they are people! And their lives matter every bit as much as any queens!”

“Good.”

Margaery is surprised to find herself standing, almost glaring down at the queen who is, for the first time since her arrival, genuinely smiling at her. Small though it may be. And with it, a flash of the girl she used to be. Margaery feels her cheeks warm. 

“I-”

“Don’t apologize. We speak our mind in the North, though it usually takes people longer to get used to the idea.”

“I’m afraid there is little use for courty manners or subterfuge in a volunteer hospital in Flea Bottom.” Sitting down weakly.

“Then why did you stay? Surely, even after you recovered, you could have found a...different situation. Allies, or-” Waving a hand. 

“...I was useful.” A long pause. “For the first time in my life, no one cared where I was born, what I looked like, it was simply...there is a task, can you do it? And I did. People praised me on genuine accomplishments instead of...things that don’t really matter in the end.”

“And you weren’t the least bit tempted to take your other offer? Brought up by...” Checking the letter. “Tyrion. Of course.”

“You mean marrying Bronn and returning to Highgarden.”

“Some may even say it was your duty to do so.”

“I have paid the duty of selling my body to a man enough times for my family. Bronn, admittedly, offered me terms in which we need only be married in name but to then...what’s the point?” Darkly. “There will be no heir to pass the estate to. No established line to come after.”

“I do believe Bronn mentioned you both finding your pleasure elsewhere. You could establish a line that cut him out entirely, and so long as he was allowed to play at being a lord I doubt he would care after his initial bout of swearing.”

“I have no intention of letting a man touch me in that manner ever again, your grace. That is simply all there is to it.”

“I see.” Thoughtful, eyeing Brienne sideways.

“Your grace...we were friends, of a sort, in Kingslanding.”

“We were.” Eyes snapping back to her. Growing more distant. “But I am afraid that is precisely why I am struggling with the idea.” Tilting her head. “Save the Lord Commander, every single person I met in Kings Landing who told me I could trust them eventually betrayed me. Even Petyr Baelish, beloved friend of my mother who swore to me to the stars and back that his motives and actions were always in my best interest. Do you know what happened to Petyr, Lady Margaery?”

“I genuinely do not. Only that he came North, and was never seen again.”

“Yes, he came North, at my request. He saved our men, and Jon Snow, in the Battle of the Bastards. And then he finally showed his true colors. Or perhaps it is merely that I could finally see what had been in front of me the whole time.” Blinks. “He was tried and sentenced in the great hall, for treason and deceit. Arya carried out the sentence immediately. But when we were friends, I would have sworn on my mother’s grave he could do me no harm. That he was loyal. Trustworthy.”

“I believe your point has been made, your grace.” Stiffly. “Shall I begin my journey south now or may I at least stay until my traveling companions leave?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brienne, to Sansa. “Why are you behaving like this?”

Sansa, a little stunned. “I was used by the people of Kingslanding, Brienne. You know this. Even the Tyrell’s with their plot to marry me to-”

“Yes, I do. I also know you would have done the same in her position and what she planned for you was certainly kinder than all the rest.”

“That’s a very bold claim to make.” Coldly. She does not like to be balked. 

“You believed my bold claim about a man once, with far more evidence to the contrary than your accusations against Lady Margaery.” Quietly. “Or was it, as some claimed, simply that you wished to defy the dragon queen and used your supposed trust in me to do so?”

The silence that stretches is long and tense, Sansa staring at Brienne nearly unblinking, Brienne standing firm under the gaze. Margaery sits, eyes flicking between the two. 

“...are you making the same claim as you did before?” A sidestep, one they all can see but do not call attention to.

“Yes.” A touch more kindly. “Lady Margaery is a woman of honor, and to be quite frank Sansa you don’t really have a choice. You look terrible.”

For the first time, Margaery can see it too. She is far too thin, there are circles under her eyes, and there is a weariness in her posture that looks...set in.

“Oh, do I?” Acidly.

“How much weight have you lost in the last year and a half? And do you know how many of your folk have come to see me about how hard you’re driving yourself, Sansa? I haven’t even been here a day!”

Sansa’s face is as red as her hair. “...there is a great deal to do.”

“Yes, there is. And because you talked me into leaving, you don’t have anyone left who will tell you to eat a meal and get some sleep when you need it.”

“Oh, believe me, Meera Reed is quite happy to take out her repressed feelings for a certain Stark on me when she feels I’m overdoing it-”

“And as much as I appreciate her helping care for you when you refuse to care for yourself, she is only here to help 3 months out of nine or ten.” Baldly. “Put Margaery to work. And if in six weeks you aren’t pleased, I’ll take her back to Kingslanding with Bronn and I. Or, perhaps she’ll decide you’re a tyrant and leave anyways. But either way, wait until then to decide.”

“I’m not sure I’ve missed you anymore.” Sansa, tightly.

“I am still glad to be here, and I hope you feel differently in the morning.” Yawning. “By the Seven, I think that might be my cue.”

“You should go rest.” Sansa, pouring herself more tea.

“And you?”

“I will be finishing the accounts and reading new messages that came in.” Taking a bracing swallow of said tea.

“...I could help.” Margaery.

Sansa waves a hand. “Tomorrow. When I can explain-”

“I know how to balance accounts, and read incidentally.” Witty. “And if you are too tired to answer a question or two then you are also too tired to be doing this.”

Sansa stares at her. Margaery holds her ground. Trying to channel her inner Brienne. It seems to work.

“...very well.” Begrudging. 

Brienne bids them both a goodnight, and leaves. Margaery helps. They both manage to get some sleep earlier than Sansa imagined.

The next few days, Margaery slowly settles in. Sanas does introduce her to a few key people, let’s them take it from there. At least twice, overrules Sansa’s orders about seeing to her own needs. The second time she brings the tray herself, telling Sansa to eat or she’ll tell Brienne. 

Sansa is not amused. 

She also eats. 

Brienne is pleased. 

Then the negotiations begin. They’re finalizing the goods the North has always provided the south. Some at a higher cost. Nothing that is common, only ‘luxury goods’ (pelts, certain foods, etc). 

Bronn argues, but it's mostly for show. They know they’re going to more or less give her what she wants. They are fair prices. 

Activities to entertain the guests.

Hunting at least once. 

There is always a large, communal evening meal. 

Bouts of sport. Brienne and Bronn both participate. 

Bronn is taken on a tour of a few of the local breweries (most run by women). 

More haggling back and forth.

Brienne being cute with her son. Helping him learn to shoot.

Margaery goes looking for the Queen one day.

“Ah, it's swim day. She’ll be in the godswood.”

“...I’m sorry, what?”

Sansa is teaching all her wards how to swim. Every so often, she takes a half day to do so. Margaery has avoided the godswood on purpose, but finds herself being bustled towards it will she or nil she now. The woman is going on about how kind the Queen is, to take in the poor waifs with no families and teach them and give them better lives. 

In a pause, Margaery manages, “Yes, she is a very kind queen, but-”

“Here we are, Lady Margaery. Just follow the path, can’t go wrong if you do that.” Leaves.

Margaery stares at it like death lies at the end.

It might.

(Look up the original godswood description). 

Margaery slowly goes in. 

The souch reaches her first, the happy splash and raised shots of frolicking children. A shout she recognizes as Brienne comes followed by a laugh that makes her heart stutter.

“See? Like a fish!” Sansa triumphant.

“Yes, I can.” Brienne, dryly for her. “A good thing, as he’ll be lord of an island some day. However, that would have been nice to know before you tossed him like that-”

“We thought it would be a nice surprise.”

“Were you surprised, mama?” Eager.

“Yes I was, you young snip.” Ticking him in the water. “And I ought to through your Aunt Sansa the way she threw you, but...”

“Lady Margaery, here to swim??” Young Michal, yelling from the edge of the pool. He’s her buddy now. He always insists she comes to storytime to sit with him, so she has.

Everyone looks at the shout, and she feels her cheeks start to warm. Quickly forces it down. “No, Master Michal. Her grace has a message that came in.”

Sansa immediately glances her way, then at Nona Wells who nods.

“Alright you rapscallions! Out of the water and into bathe before dinner or there are going to be a lot of hungry bellies tonight.”

Quickly chorused grumbles, but they obey. The squires are the last out, save Sansa. Margaery is carefully not watching as she gets out, but can’t help staring when Sansa goes straight to one of the smaller pools and slips in.

“Perhaps your grace did not hear me-”

“I did. Sit down and read it to me. I will be there in a minute.” Margaery realizes she’s rubbing at something under her shift. Kneading it. Flushes and looks away.

“As you wish, your grace.” Pointedly keeping her eyes elsewhere. “It’s from Lord Umber.” A minor hiccup in things. Sansa listens, then asks her to read it to her a second time. Brienne comes over, wrapped in a blanket. Sansa notices her.

“What are you doing out here?” Sansa.

“I could ask you the same thing, your grace.”

“Warming up, as you should be.”

“You will not be able to dry off out here, unless you plan on being as shameless as the Dornish. Which means you will have to do so again once you are inside.”

“...I enjoy using these pools and so rarely have the chance.” Looking away. 

“You forgot to tell your servants to prepare for a return from a cold swim. Again.”

“...they know now. And will soon send me word that all is ready.” Turning to Margaery. “Please draft a reply to Lord Umber, thanking him for letting me know but also reminding him relief from the tithe is directly proportional to the amount of assistance received. I will read it over when I am bathed and dressed.”

“Of course, your grace.” Turning to leave quickly. A servant passes her. 

“Your grace, your ladies sent word-”

“Excellent.” The sound of the queen rising from the water. Margaery can hear it, and does not glance back. 

Still feels her cheeks warm.

Speeds her feet along. 

Fill in a few more weeks. Meera easily falling into her role, organizing the incoming workers and preparing all to begin the harvest. 

This harvest includes Morel mushrooms, fiddleheads, leeks, nettles, and the first root vegetable harvest (potatoes, onions, parsnips, turnips, and bitter berries). Other than the Morels, the rest is to be distributed to everyone to refill stores long-since depleted by such a long winter. 

Something in the green house. Margaery’s first visit is looking for Sansa. Finds her discussing the next planting with the gardener. It is literally filled top to bottom with food producing plants, with a single ancient lemon tree in one corner. A sprig is growing beside it. 

Some questions or other. Margaery asks about the greenhouse. It was how they survived the long winter. Only the hardiest crops grew, and they lost entire harvests to extreme cold or weeks without the sun, but they never gave up. Also mention eating the horses. The cows. The pigs. Etc. Just hoping they would be able to get more when it warmed again.

Reports from the Wildling Farms in the Gift, their first harvests are going well. Their representative doesn’t bow or kneel, but he speaks with respect and treats her as an equal. 

Margaery is impressed. 

Is even more impressed with how Sansa handles a trial. 

The charge is thievery, an attempt to make off with a bagful of very valuable foodstuffs. The justice of the North is the one who gives the sentence must also carry it out.

So, Sansa does. 

Margaery can admit that despite the brutality of it, it is different from the violence of Joffery or what she heard from the Dragon Queen. This is justice and it feels like it even as Sansa drives the brand home. She holds it in only as long as it is required, and does not flinch despite his scream of pain. Margaery finds herself fiercely proud of that.

And even more proud when she finds the Queen quietly sicking up in her office a time later. Margaery sees to it she is brought no meat in her stew that night, and Sansa is quietly grateful. When she appears unaffected at dinner, she gains even more respect from her men. The branded one is there, eating among his companions. Northern justice is swift and brutal, but then forgiven and forgotten. Their land is too harsh to behave otherwise. 

Add before this: Sansa reflecting on the Margaery who was at Kings Landing versus the one here in her keep. And Margaery doing the same. Margaery still faithfully wears her head covering every single day, Sansa smiles less than she used to. 

It's the start of the final week. Brienne tracks Sansa down around lunch to ask if she’s made a decision about Margaery. Or if she’s going to be ridiculous and send her away.

Sansa is not amused. Yes, she will ask Margaery to stay. She is extremely useful. But only if she wants to. Plans to put the question to her after dinner. Brienne approves and leaves her alone. 

They’ve just begun dinner when a page runs in, telling the Queen she has an unexpected visitor. A Lady Lyonette Tyrell.

“Lyonette?”

Margaery flushes at having spoken over the Queen, but Sansa just quirks a brow at her expectantly.

“...my good sister. Married to my brother, Garlan, who would have been the heir of Highgarden after Willas passed away.”

“Did you know she was coming?”

“No! I...I wasn’t even sure she was still alive. There were rumors that some of the women and children escaped and went into hiding, but...” Shakes her head, unable to continue. 

“Bring her in, and another seat for my table if she wishes to join us. A warmed blanket and a brazier for if she is chilled from her journey.”

The page runs to comply. 

Margaery. “Your grace, I genuinely do not know why or how she came to be here, but I would beg permission to speak privately with her-”

“Of course.” Surprised. “But she requested to speak with me, and I would not have her think that request was ignored. After she has said what she needs to, she is free to speak with you as long as you or she wishes.”

“Thank you.”

Before she can say more Lyonette stride in, flanked by six men at arms. Despite their bedraggled appearance, they all stand straight and proud. The men wear the colors of Longtable, a minor Reach house.

Lyonette curtsies appropriately, eyes flicking briefly to Margaery before returning to the reigning monarch in the room.

“Your grace. My thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Lady Lyonette, of the forther house Tyrell, be welcome.” Sansa says it respectfully, no hint of mockery in her voice or eyes. “You said it was a matter of urgency. Speak, and know you are among friends.”

“Am I?” Mild surprise. “I came to see if it was true, that Lady Margaery was alive and brought to your court.”

“It is.” Sansa, motioning to Margaery. “And as she is your good sister, I am sure you have much to discuss. You and your men may joins us in our dinner, or withdraw to a private room if you would prefer-”

“Your grace, I beg your pardon if I offend, but is my good sister a prisoner?”

“No.” Simply put “Lady Margaery is our guest, and has been given a position of trust and respect during her time with us.”

“Then she is free to leave whenever she wishes?”

“Of course.”

“And if she wishes to leave right now? With me?”

Quiet falls.

Margaery’s mouth falls open.

The queen’s brows rise.

“...yes.” Consideringly. “If that was what she wished.”

“Lady Margaery? Would you come?”

Margaery naps her mouth shut. “-...I...”

“However, I would advise against such a decision for your own safety.” Sansa, frowning. “Given your appearance, I would guess you have traveled hard for several days. Even a single night of rest will speed your journey home considerably. Not to mention giving your good sister a fair amount of time to consider your request.”

“...I did not believe it would be wise to do so, your grace.” A glance at Bronn, who is studying them with a growing frown.

“Cock fuckers!” Bronn, pointing at the men. “It’s you!”

“Lord Bronn?” Sansa, voice icy. “Is there something you wish to say?”

Clearing his throat, realizing where he is. “Uh...your grace. These fu-fellows are...from Tabletop. A house in the Reach that’s been nothing but trouble, and I think I finally fuckin’ know why. I ought to-”

“Sit down before you embarrass yourself.” Brienne, yanking him back into his seat. “We are guests, Lord Bronn.”

“We would not ask you to put yourself in a difficult situation.” Lyonette. “Our only intention here is to retrieve my good sister and return home.”

“You do not need to ask.” Sansa. “Stay. Rest. Lord Bronn will give his word to behave, and perhaps even a civil conversation may happen that may not be possible elsewhere.”

“Is that your command, your grace?” Lyonette, coldy.

“No,” Sansa replied carefully. “But I do recommend it.”

“I will not go.” Margaery, into the tense that follows. All eyes turn to her. “Not until we have had a proper conversation. Stay the night, and we will decide together tomorrow what the best course of action forward is. Please.”

“...I suppose that does not leave me much of a choice. Your grace, I accept your hospitality for me and my men.”

“Excellent. Make room at the lower table, and a place has been made here by your good sister. Eat and rest, there will be time for talking later.”

Lady Lyonette is tightly wound and exhausted. Excuses herself to sleep when Brienne and Sansa go to do the bedtime story, and Margaery takes her to her room which they’ll share. Once the door is closed, Lyonette embraces her tightly and cries. 

Figure this out. Highly emotional, but Lyonette is also exhausted. Margaery helps her undress and puts her to bed. Can’t sleep yet, finds herself pacing the halls. Rounds a corner and almost runs into the Queen.

“Lady Margaery.” Sansa, catching her with one hand by the elbow. “Is everything alright?”

Margaery hesitates. “No, I...I’m fine, your grace. Just thinking.”

“Walk with me?”

“Of course.”

Sansa links their arms, reminiscent of how Margaery once did when they were still girls. It is the first time she has done so since Margaery has come to Winterfell. 

“I have a message for you I promised to deliver, from Michal.”

“Oh?” Smiling, in spite of everything else.

“He said he will only forgive you for missing the story if you come visit him tomorrow morning at breakfast.”

“Has he always been so dramatic?” A light snort.

“I don’t know.” Shrug. “Michal was one of the last to join us, with a group of stragglers from _____. They held out for a few months, after everything settled, but their food ran out and those who made it were the few who managed to journey.”

“His parents?”

“No one knows. Like most of my wards, they were found or lost or...perhaps taken from their families. I don’t know. What I do know is they are well treated, educated, and safe here. And that is all that matters now.”

“But...no one has asked.”

“Nona Wells, perhaps. Or a few of the others.” A pause. “Is your good sister resting well?”

“Yes, thank you. I should have said such earlier. This was very kind, and you did not-”

“It was not kind.” Sansa, calmly. “Not when it was so satisfying to twit Bronn as well as extend hospitality to Lady Lyonette.” A vicious smile. “I do despise that man.”

Blink, surprise. “Then why allow him to visit at all?”

“Because he is too stupid to realize how much he is actually giving away in our negotiations, Brienne is here to keep him in line, and Bran definitely owes me a favor now for putting up with him for nearly two months.” Stops at her office door. “May I offer you a drink, Lady Margaery, or is this goodnight?”

“No, I would like that drink. I think I may need it.”

“You have certainly earned it.” Going in, Margaery right behind her. 

Margaery has been alone with Sansa before, but something about the almost solicitous way the Queen is watching her makes her cheeks warm and her heart stutter. 

Tea is waiting for them both, and Sansa pours while waving Margaery to a seat. 

“No Brienne tonight?” Making small talk.

“No. She is having a private moment in the crypt.” Bringing the cups over. “At the shrine for those honored for their part in the battle of the Long Night.”

“You didn’t go with her?”

“I did, earlier. We hold a vigil every year on the day of the event, and I believe she keely feels having missed the last two. So she will keep her own tonight.”

“You don’t speak of that night often. Or lightly.”

“Should we?” Lifted brows.

“I don’t know. But you...you fought an army of the dead.”

“A great many people did, yes. And a great many of them died. I did not fight, I hid. With most of the rest of the women and the and the old and the sick. When where it not for fucking Arya, I would have died screaming in fright.”

“Not precisely the way a proud older sister would respond.”

“I am proud. Fiercely so. But it would help if the few letters that have made it home weren’t signed ‘Arya Stark, who actually killed the Night King and saved the day incase you fucking forgot.”

“Ah. Siblings.” Commiserating grin. “I do recall how that can be.”

“Yes, I imagine so, and...I have never wished to pry, but if you wished to speak of it I want you to know I am always willing to listen. I know something of loss, and how complicated finding a thing you thought to never see again can be.”

“She didn’t say why she’d come.”

“I wasn’t asking that.” Gently.

“I know.” Looking up. “But I think I can guess, and I need to tell you so you will understand why I refuse her tomorrow.”

“You do not have to justify yourself to me. You are welcome to stay, for as long as you wish it, without any explanation beyond it is your desire to do so.”

“And yet I still must tell you. So you can decide whether or not you should warn your brother about a possible civil war in the Reach.”

Margaery explains her assumptions and fears, and Sansa can see her point. Considers. She believes given Bronn’s response that Lyonette is fostering resistance to him in the Reach. And that she wishes Margaery to return to rally even more of the Bannermen. Technically Lyonette’s children should be the heirs to Highgarden, but without her husband or any other family members to back her she is likely having a hard time getting the support she needs to truly get things moving. 

“...if that weren’t an issue, would you wish to go back?”

“Your grace?”

“Your good sister had children, did she not? The son and daughter of your brother, Garlan.”

“Yes.”

“If they live, would Lyonette consider wedding the odious Lord Bronn?” 

“...pardon me?”

“Bronn has already offered to wed you, to secure his claim to the Reach, but Lyonette has something you do not: children of the Tyrell bloodline. If Lyonette marries Bronn, she gets Bran to name them Bronn’s legal heirs and they need never cross paths again. She lives in the Reach, skillfully managing Highgarden, and he stays in Kings Landing as Master of Coin. They both get what they want, and no one needs to die.”

“...I honestly don’t know if she would even consider it. I...I could be wrong, about why she’s here.”

“You could, but I doubt it.” Half smile. “You were always very good about that sort of thing.”

“At what sort of thing?”

“Figuring out what people actually wanted and what they meant behind their pretty words.”

“Really? Because I’ve been here five weeks and I can’t actually figure out if you like having me here or not.”

A quiet pause.

“I do.” Sansa, studying the cup in her hands. “Like having you here. It's made deciding what to do about you that much more difficult.”

“Oh?” 

“Hm. If you don’t care for someone’s presence, but they do a good job you can acknowledge that honestly. You are certain that, in fact, they did do well. Someone who is a pleasure to be around, you aren’t always as....certain.” Shrugs. “Of course, it simplifies things when half my people are asking with bated breath if you are staying and the other half are demanding your stay or that we find someone who can do what you do because they do not wish to return to the way things were before. So you are, if there was any doubt, still a charming person.”

“Oh.” Feeling her cheeks flush with pleasure. But the queen is frowning and looking away.

“I apologize. It was not fair of me to say such things until your family situation was resolved.”

“No, no I...you were going to let me stay?”

“I was going to ask if you would, yes.”

“Was?”

“I didn’t know you still had a living family, Lady Margaery. Family that may need you.” Shaking her head. “I will not ask you to choose the North over them.”

“We don’t know that it's safe. I won’t be part of another needless war.”

“It will be.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Please, Bronn will fold like wet tissue, and all that will be left is to bring Lyonette around. And she will, because she is a mother.” Considering. “I never considered my mother to be especially brave or heroic as a child, but she may have been the most heroic of us all in the end. And she did it for her children.”

“That’s a good point.”

“And do you agree with it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Perhaps.” Mouth falling open. “I could...I could go home.”

“Yes, you could.”

Something in the Queen’s voice drags her eyes back up, but by the time she looks the polite mask is back in place.

“I...I don’t...”

“Nothing needs to be decided right this moment.” Gently. “And while I won’t hold your good sister prisoner, I suspect that so long as she believes there is a chance you will leave with her, she will stay. You have time.” Hand on Margaery’s arm, anchoring her in place.

“...thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“How could I ever...”

“Consider your timely assistance these last few weeks repayment enough. You have been...genuinely appreciated. And not just by my people.”

“What are you going to do if I leave?” Sansa gives her a blank look. “I mean...you did just admit that half your people will openly revolt if I do not stay.”

“Oh, well, obviously the entire northern kingdom will collapse and fall to ruin, but do not let that concern you.” Wryly. “No, we will manage. As we always have done. We will find whatever replacement we can, and while I doubt we have any hope of finding someone half as competent as you we will...soldier on.”

“You can’t do everything yourself.”

“I know that.” Stiffly.

“That doesn’t seem to stop you from trying, your grace.”

“I never said that it did.” Smirking. “But if I had listened every time someone said I couldn’t do something, I wouldn’t be alive much less Queen.”

Margaery laughs. It almost sounds as lighthearted as before. It makes Sansa’s stomach twist in a way that she shoves ruthlessly to the side. 

The conversation moves to other things, until they are both starting to yawn. Margaery insists they both turn in, and they stand, ending up very close together. Impulsively, Margaery hugs the queen. Tears pricking her eyes. 

“Thank you.”

Sansa instinctively returns the embrace, then finds herself melting into it. 

It is a very good thing Margaery is leaving soon.

“...you’re welcome.” Awkwardly letting go. Margaery goes back to her rooms

Sansa does not get much sleep that night.

-090-

Margaery wakes at first light, as is her habit, and finds Lyonette watching her from the small table. Offers to have breakfast brought up. They usually eat in the great hall, but she has enough pull to arrange things otherwise if she wants.

“....Margaery, will you answer me honestly?”

“Of course.”

“Are you fucking the Queen of the North?”

A long pause.

“I’m sorry...what?” Margaery, genuinely stunned.

“Don’t play games, Marge. I don’t care, I never have, but I cannot understand her actions otherwise and-”

“I am not. Nor have I ever.” Flatly. Somewhat annoyed that the assumption is the only reason she would be helped is because she’s putting out. Not that she hasn’t thought about it, but still.

“Marge-”

“I mean it. What shall I swear on to satisfy you?” Getting up and dressing for the day.

“...then why would she risk-”

“She risks little.” Quietly. “Lord Bronn is barely tolerated here, and he knows that. I believe it begins with the fact that he did not lend his support for the battle of the Long Night and ends with him showing up two weeks later begging for food. He apparently ‘earned his keep’ enough for them to feed him through the winter, but barely.” Grimace.

“How was he awarded Highgarden?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to ask, and the only people I could get an honest answer from are now back in Kingslanding.” Thoughtful. “Well, Brienne might know but...”

“...do you think she would help us kill him?” Darkly.

“Lyonette!”

“Accidents happen.” Grumbling.

“No. He’s a womanizer and an imbecile but...we’re stuck with him. For now.”

“Oh?” Perking up.

“I only meant that at the rate he whores and drinks he’s liable to put himself in an early grave.”

“Ah. And then Highgarden will fall to whatever whore managed to whelp a brat for him.” Snarling. “No, we cannot-”

“It doesn’t have to.” Meaningful.

“You have a plan?” Thinking. “Of course. You will wed him, and-”

“No.” Quickly.

“I know you are not young, but you are still more than capable of having children at your age-”

“I won’t. Have children.” Swallowing. “Ever.”

“...I don’t understand.”

“...I was injured, Lyonette, escaping the sept. Gravely injured. I...they gave me Winter’s Bloom as a last resort, to lower my fever and strengthen my body.”

“...oh.” Stepping forward. “That doesn’t...that isn’t-”

“Yes, it is.” Holding her hands. “After I recovered, my moonsblood nearly stopped. I only truly bleed one month in three or four, and it is always lighter than before. And there is this.” Carefully removes her headwrap. The once bright curls are now a fine silver grey.

“Oh, Margaery, I’m so-”

“Don’t be. I am alive, and we found each other again.”

“But then, how...”

“You could marry him.”

Basically, Lyonette can’t sleep with him. She married for love.

What if she didn’t have to? And her children by Garlan were named the heirs of Highgarden?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAIT A MINUTE, THIS STORY IS INCOMPLETE!
> 
> Yes, it is! It said so in the description, but sometimes those details get skipped over. If you would like further information, please continue on. If you’re done, feel free to skip to the end and leave a kudo or a comment to let me know what you thought!
> 
> SO: Why post incomplete fanfiction?
> 
> Because I am an adult with a life and responsibilities and honestly, I write fanfiction 100% for me. I decided to post what I wrote for whoever else wants to to enjoy. If you do, great! If you don’t, that isn’t really my problem. I feel less bad than you may imagine because at the very least, I give you the arc of each story. Nothing I post ends on a cliffhanger, and I’m not stringing along with promises of ‘more to come soon, fingers crossed!’ This is what it is. IF I come back to finish ANY story, it will be because something happened that inspired that. Rewatching old favorite shows or reading favorite books or whatever the case may be. Yelling at me to write more probably won’t help, but I can’t stop you from trying.
> 
> In fact, have questions? Concerns? Ideas? A burning desire to know more? Email me at impatient_panda@aol.com. 
> 
> Best Wishes, fandom hunters!
> 
> impatient_panda


	3. Part 3

Sansa supposed she should have known better than to say something would be easy in regards to Bronn. 

Lyonette, as it turned out, was in favor of the match. The ex-sellsword however-

“Fuck no!” Glaring at her and Brienne. “That cunt has festered open fucking rebellion in my own hold. I’m a lord, alright? A fucking lord! And Master of Coin! No bitch is going to-”

“You are a lord only in name!” Brienne losing her temper. “And you have given your people no reason to respect-”

“I’m their fucking lord! Why should I care two shits-”

“Enough!” Sansa, from her seat at the table. “Please, this will get us nowhere. Bronn?”

“What?” Snapped, taking a sullen drink of his ale.

“...why Highgarden? I know how you got it. I don’t understand why you wanted it.”

“D’ye know who my father is, Queenie?”

“No, I don’t. You never said.” Allowing the disrespectful nickname so long as there’s any chance of pushing this through.

“That’s because I don’t fucking know. My mum was a whore (fill in details from the show, he’s been shat on his whole life. And now he’s a lord so no one can shit on him, he’ll shit on them.)”

“...no one can deny you’ve done well for yourself, Bronn.”

“Really? Because those cock fuckers at Longtable say otherwise.” Pacing now.

“And how do you see yourself dealing with them?”

“...don’t rightly know yet.” Eyes down. “I did wonder if the alchemist’s guild had any wildfire left-”

“Bronn!” Brienne, aghast.

“Fuckers deserve it.”

“He won’t.” Sansa, certainly.

“Oh-ho, and what would you know about what I will or won’t fucking do, Queenie?”

“Oh, if you had it in your possession, you would. But you don’t, and the Alchemist’s guild was destroyed by (dragon). Which you already know.”

“...yeah, so?”

“You could kill them all. You might even convince some of the bannermen of the Reach to help you. But they will never really respect you if you do that.”

“Now you sound like the fuckin’ Imp.”

“He would probably agree with me on this.” Sansa, lips quirked in a dry smile. “Marry Lyonette, and you gain more than an end to this conflict. Highgarden will turn higher profits under a familiar hand, the lords will heel to your command and you will have their respect for in a way, you have respected them first.”

“Highgarden profits are fine. Don’t need more help, got a guy seein’ to it already.”

“I’d wager 100 dragons he’s skimming at least 10% more than he says you’re making off the top. Minimum.”

“Why? He’s already fat and wealthy.”

“If there was no lord or lady to look over your shoulder, wouldn’t you?”

“...-fuck!”

Argue, argue, argue.

It comes down to a contract.

Sort out the details.

Bronn can’t die mysteriously, Lyonette’s son is his heir. No sex, but they’ll both be discreet(ish) and maintain their separate residences where they never actually have to meet.

The Longtable men grumble, but Lyonette brings them to heel without assistance./ Bronn laughs, he likes a bossy wench. 

She shuts him down as well.

Margaery is pleased.

Sansa is also pleased, but less so.

There is still more work to be done. They prepare for a small ceremony in the sept, Margaery taking over the planning as she is now extremely familiar with Winterhold. It will be done the day before they leave. Messages for ravens are prepared and sent out. 

Meera is very busy and stays far out of everything. The ceremony is set for the day before they leave. Brienne has watched everything, busy with Selwyn, but she can’t help dropping by Margaery’s room the day before the wedding.

“Lady Margaery?” After knocking yielded a quiet command to enter. It's just before the dinner hour, everyone is getting ready.

“Lord Commander, come in.” Smiles. “What can I do for you? I’m afraid I’m a little busy-”

“I can imagine so, given the fact you haven’t packed yet.” Surveying the room. “I won’t take much for your time. And honestly, this is none of my business but I suppose I’m...disappointed.”

“A grievous sin for whoever caused that. Tell me what is wrong, and we shall set it right immediately.” Not entirely joking.

“You’re leaving Winterfell.” Studious frown. “I should not complain. I did as well. But...I thought you had found a place here. One that made you happy.”

“And so I have.”

“Then why go South when your good sister is perfectly capable of managing Bronn and High Garden on her own?”

“It would be silly to do so. Which is why I’m not.”

“You’re...what?”

“Not going South, unless the Queen herself orders it.”

“...but, everyone said-”

“Yes, they have. Repeatedly. But no one has actually bothered to ask. Yet. I’m surprised her grace hasn’t caught that yet.”

Brienne has her own thoughts about the Queen’s distraction lately.

“Well, that’s...” Smiling in spite of herself. “That’s wonderful.”

“Do you really think so?” A hint of nerve. “She, the queen, said I could stay but I honestly don’t believe she thought....”

Brienne glances over her shoulder at a knock on the door. “Actually-”

“Enter.” Margaery, automatically. It's the Queen. She told Brienne she was heading here to go over some details with her, after finishing another task. Brienne went first, so if she needed to confront them together she would have a possible opportunity right then.

“Margaery, I...Brienne? That’s fine, this really concerns you both given the-...did something happen?” Catching Brienne’s wide smile.

“Yes,” Brienne, smiling at Margaery who feels her heart stop dead in her chest. “Lady Margaery just gave me some news that lifted an absolute weight from my shoulders.”

“Oh, and what’s that?” Sansa, amused.

“She’s staying at Winterfell.”

-090-

It was strange, those moments when the world inverted itself and suddenly you were falling instead of having feet planted firmly on solid ground. Sansa blinked, too a deep breath, and tried to remember which way was up.

“...forgive me, but you can’t be serious-”

“She is.” Margaery. “And so am I. I’m going to stay.”

“Does Lyonette know?”

“I was going to tell her this evening, though I believe she may already suspect something of the sort.”

“How so?”

“My lack of preparation. I was not one to leave such things to the last minute before.”

“...I see.”

“Are you not pleased?” Brienne, beaming. “You will still have your help and a good friend to be with you.”

“Of course, I just...Brienne, could you give us a moment please?”

“...of course.” Smiling slipping. Tossing Margaery a supportive nod before leaving.

Essentially, Sansa believes something to be wrong. She can’t imagine not going back to support her family. Margaery finally asks:

“And you saying I can’t stay here?”

“Of course not.” Too quickly. Feels her cheeks warm. “I would never-”

“I know. That’s why I want to stay. That, and it's nice to feel...useful. Needed. Wanted. And not just for who I can be married to for the benefit of my family.”

“...I can sympathize with that.” A pause. “You are sure this is what you want?”

“Yes, I want to stay. For as long as you will have me.”

“Then you will never leave. And not just because half my people were threatening to revolt if you left.” A wry smile. 

Margaery has a flirtatious quip on the tip of her tongue, and Lyonette walks in. Pauses in surprise.

“Your grace, I apologize. I did not realize-”

“It is your guest room, Lady Lyonette, you have no reason to apologize. I was about to leave. Margaery, we will discuss the details after dinner?”

“Of course your grace.”

“Very good.”

She leaves, Lyonette turns to Margaery. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes, I just...we have something we need to discuss Lyonette.”

“You are, in fact, fucking the Queen and you’ve falling so madly in love with her you’re staying in the North?”

“...one out of three isn’t bad.”

“Are you going to make me guess?”

“I’m staying in the North.”

A sigh of relief. “Oh, good.”

Margaery jerks as though slapped. “Well, I suppose that’s better than being yelled at or called a traitor but-”

“I didn’t think of it until yesterday, but I heard some of the Longtable men talking. Wondering who you would wed when we returned, and if you might have set your sights on the King.” Clearing her throat. “You were Queen, dearest, three times. Up here they may not care, but down south...it could...complicate things.”

“I see.” Cooly.

“...I was willing to go to war for you when I thought you were a prisoner. Here, against your will. That isn’t the case, and you were right. I am sick to death of death and war.”

“I understand.” Less unkindly. “I do, I just...I was expecting to have to explain or convince you-”

“I need neither. You have a position of trust and respect and you want to fuck the Queen, so...”

“I have never said that!” Exasperated.

Lyonette just gives her a look.

“I will write as often as I can. It will take four months for them to reach you, but I’ll send them just the same.”

“Your niece and nephew will be upset not to finally meet you. Perhaps you can make a trip halfway sometime? On an errand for your queen?”

“Perhaps some day.” Smiling. “I would...I would love to meet them. I’m sure they’re wonderful.”

“I sent a raven to Longtable. They will meet us at Highgarden.” A wide smile. “I suppose, after...after everything that happened, I never dared dream...”

Figure this out. 

Move to dinner.

Lyonette tells Sansa she hopes her goodsister will flourish in the NOrth.

Sansa glances past her at Margaery. “I think she already has.”

Interrupted by something else, but something about the way she says it gives Lyonette hope for Margaery.

When it's time for the Queen to retire, Sansa makes the announcement that Lady Margaery will be remaining with them and will officially take the title of the Hand of the Queen. 

Winterfell folks are stoked.

Margaery feels her cheeks grow warm. Sansa pretends to be offended that they like the southron flower better than the Northern Queen on their way to bid the children good night.

Sansa tells Michal that Margaery is staging, and isn’t that wonderful?

He turns to Margaery, “Why would they think you’re leaving? You belong here.”

Brienne just laughs, But the tears are close to the surface.

After putting them to bed, Sansa and Brienne go for one last evening together and Margaery with Lyonette. On the way, Margaery is stopped by Nona Wells who warns her that after Brienne leaves the Queen can be a bit...tetchy. Just so she knows. 

A quiet night of remember with Lyonette, everyone rises early to see everyone off. Sansa’s eyes are dry, but there is a tension in her face that wasn’t there before. Brienne is barely holding it together in regards to her son, and leaves him with a stack of letters with the promise of writing more soon. She also embraces the Queen, who manages a smile. Margaery is busy with Lyonette. Bronn is waiting to the side, bored. 

Leave taking complete, most of the crowd drifts away while Sansa and Selwyn move to the wall to watch the group move down the road.

Margaery follows, unseen.

Hears, “It’s alright to cry, Selwyn.” Taking his hand.

“Armsmaster Falori says men don’t cry.” Strained sniffing.

“Men cry, but knowing when to cry is important too. You are with me, no one else is looking or listening. So let your tears flow, and when we are done we shall fix whatever damage is done and get back to work. Hm?”

Margaery feels as though she’s encroaching on something personal and leaves. Later she is looking for the Queen and is sent to the godswood, finds her pacing and muttering to herself before the heart tree. She pauses when she hears Margaery, still frowning. Something in her expression makes the older woman pause, and Sansa snaps.

“What?”

“I didn’t realize you liked to sulk.”

“I am not sulking, I’m-” Snapping her mouth shut, feeling her cheeks heat.

“You’re...” Margaery, brows raised as she wraps the shawl around her a little more tightly. The breeze is brisk today.

Sansa stands up a little straighter, and says simply. “I’m yelling at my younger brother.”

“....you’re what?” Surprised. “How...?”

“The heart tree.” Motioning to the carved face behind her. “You recall his...gifts?”

“Yes, I do. It's why I’m here.”

“Yes, he...he’s drawn to heart trees. In the stream. So hopefully this...tirade about his letter will eventually be heard.” Glaring back at the tree.

“He sent you a letter?” Surprised. “When-”

“Brienne gave it to me today, just before she left. At my brother’s request. And likely very wise, for if I’d had it earlier I’d not have put up with Bronn for six weeks or helped broker a peace that helps my kingdom not at all.” Shaking the letter at the tree.

Margaery blinks surprised. “Oh.”

Turning back, realizing what she said. “...I’m sorry. I don’t actually mean that. Brothers are just...insufferable sometimes.” Glancing down at something in her other hand. “As are ex-husbands.” Glaring at the tree once more. “And you can tell the Imp he’s an ass, Bran. An utter ass!”

-090-

“Good news, your grace,” Tyrion said as he was let into the office of the King. “A raven arrived from Darry. In less than two weeks time, we will have our Lord Commander and the master of Coin back in Kings Landing. The new Lady of High Garden will swear her fealty to you, and then continue on to her lords lands to rule them in his stead, and-”

“Lord Hand, did you by chance send the Queen of the North a pin in the shape of a wolf’s paw for her new Hand?” Curious.

“...ah. You have had word from her grace?”

“In a way.” A half smile. “It seems my sister has discovered a way to share her ire over several thousand miles. And I am to tell you that you are an ass.”

“Duly noted, your grace.” Smiling. “But how...?”

“By yelling at the heart tree in Winterfell.”

“...and that actually worked?” Surprised.

“Oh yes.”

“But how...”

“I told her once I was drawn to heart trees as....anchor points in the stream of time. And strong emotions. She was quite angry to begin with, and then was interrupted by someone she did not wish to appear foolish in front of which made her angrier still...”

“And...who might that have been?” Attempting to be subtle.

“No, Lord Hand. I believe you have assisted enough in this matter for now.”

“Of course, your grace.” Bowing slightly.

“That is good news, that Bronn and Brienne will be here soon. And peace in the Reach once more. Come and tell me about this new project, though...”

-090-

Margaery straightened her dress, a gift from Sansa to help fill out her wardrobe as the Hand of the Queen. Fixes her hair cover, and proudly places the wolf’s paw on her collar. What Tyrion meant as a joke she has taken as a point of pride.

She heads to the main hall, and manages to catch up to Sansa who glances at her and manages to suppress a frown. She has a very different opinion about the pin, but her people love it so...

They enter together, and the chatter dies down. Sansa takes her place, and Margaery waits patiently at her side.

A speech about a bountiful harvest, and how it benefits them all. A toast to Lady Meera, who helmed their efforts, and named others who were especially of use.

This was the wild harvest, items found naturally growing that are not cultivated. It is generally more difficult to findm, but also those items are often worth more in trade down south. The field harvests will begin in earnest in a month or two, figure out who will head that up. Margaery is definitely more involved with that.

They sit and eat, and a little while in Sansa tells Meera she sent a raven to her father that she’ll be home soon, but will be needed back in four month’s time.

“Your grace, I can’t possibly-”

“I am not giving you a choice, Meera.”

“Why?”

“Restraint.” Giving her a long look. “You act with restraint because you understand it is not just what we can harvest but what we can husband towards the future.” Taking a sip of her ale. “Yes, I heard the complaints of what was left behind. Those same fools would decimate the otters, beavers, and pusa in one trapping season if we let them. We can’t let them. Yes the furs and meat are needed, but if I do not have someone in charge who can keep the overeager ones in check our rivers will be stripped bare and it will take more than a single season for them to repopulate again.” A long pause. “Tell me I am wrong.”

“You aren’t, your grace.” Grimly.

“However, I know I cannot keep stealing you from your father. He has need of you as well. I propose that you help me find and train a new Yeoman. Man or woman, I don’t care, so long as they have the skill and temperament needed to do the job right. With a little luck, you will be needed for the trapping and one more wild gathering and that will be it.”

“Yes, you grace. That’s fair.”

“Good.” A wry smile. “Never fear, Meera, I will return you to your father as soon as I can.”

“So long as it is months and not years, you grace, I think shall manage.”

Finish out.

Everyone in good spirits.

They leave for the bedtime story.

Meera stays to enjoy the drink and company, her last night in Winterfell for a while.

Margaery sits with Michal, listens to the story, Sansa is good at what she does. They leave, and Sansa invites Margaery to her study. They need to talk.

Margaery is curious, but not worried. Sansa hasn’t done anything to make her think she should be worried.

They have tea.

“So, the topic you so mysteriously alluded to?” Mildly teasing. Hoping a little that it might be about the way the Queen seems to light up whenever she’s around, but fairly certain that’s not it. The tone always seems to make her smile, though, and that’s enough for her to keep doing it.

This time, Sansa frowns. “I have a decision to make.”

“Oh?” Sipping her tea. “That is usually a strength of yours.”

“Tell me, in the Reach despite the Seasons not always following a set pattern, does your (an indepth look at how the North must cycle out it's harvests, the land can’t support constant farming or it quickly goes barren. Is the south or fertile it can support such things or do they employ similar tactics?)

“The South is certainly more fertile than the North, but I do recall something of the sort. Why?”

Explain, explain. “Which is why, between the cycles is when the visits usually happen.”

“That sounds important.”

“It can be.” Looking at the fire. “Father never allowed any of his children to be fostered out, so it was when we met the other lords and ladies of the north and their children.”

“Really?” Genuinely surprised. “That’s quite unusual. Unless things are different in the North?”

“No, not it was considered quite odd.” Wry smile. “My father more than once had to defend his decision with his bannermen.”

“What was his reason?”

“A promise to his wife.” Smile faltering. “If he would not foster any of us, she would allow his bastard son to be raised alongside the rest of us at Winterfell.” Growing quiet. “Of almost anything, I wish my mother had learned the truth about Jon before her death.”

“...I’m sorry?”

“I suppose not everything became known when it was said and done. Jon was not Ned Stark’s bastard son. He was the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Aegon Targaryen.”

“Your father lied to protect him.”

“Yes. It was a point of pain between my parents their entire marriage. I just...wish she’d known that even when there was no love between them at the start of things, he respected her too much to be unfaithful.”

“No love? I thought you said-”

“Later, yes. The love came later. But not when they were wed.”

“Oh.” Nods. “It does often happen so.”

“Yes, it does.” Sadly. Shaking her head. “My apologies, this was nothing to do with what I wished to discuss.”

“I don’t mind.” Smiling at her.

Sansa clears her throat and looks away. “Yes, well...the visits. I need to do them. When I go to first matters, but not as much as...other things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as whether I bring you with me or not.”

Margaery blinks, then makes her face go still. “I see.”

“And see that, that right there is why I can not.” Motioning to Margaery’s face.

“I don’t know what you mean, your grace.”

Sansa snorts. “You’re angry because you believe this is about my confidence in your abilities.”

“...I’m not angry.”

“I trust you, without hesitation, as do my people. I could leave for a year and you will have done everything in your power to see Winterfell and its people flourish. And there may eventually be a time I do just that.”

“Then why would you even consider doing something that you know will make me appear weak in the eyes of your lords and ladies?”

“In one of our first conversations, you claimed to be entirely against the idea of ever marrying a man again.”

“And so I am still.” Firmly.

“I assumed so. Which is why when the general response to your rise to Hand of the Queen was ‘wonderful, who is she marrying to strengthen our ties to the South?’ I...took steps.”

“Which were?” Quietly.

“Those I was able to address in person or through a trusted representative I thoroughly disabused of any such thought. The rest...I would hope my message that you were here to work not wed was taken literally, I fear it won’t be.” Grimace. “I foresee a few possibilities if I leave for a few months.”

“One, that one of the local lords that is unhappy with me will attempt to bully or coerce you into some advantageous concession while I am gone. You will run rings around any of them, but it will still be an annoying waste of time.”

“Two, that some lords will take my response as tacit permission to attempt to attach you to their own households. Whoever you wed would have to movehere, of course, but I would imagine all of them believe they have a son or grandson or nephew capable of behind the ear of their wife, no matter how clever she may be.” Rolling her eyes. “Men. However wrong they may be, it will mean a pack of puppy yipping at your heels.” Grumbling. “It would not surprise me if one or two of the more enterprising souls have one headed here now, banking on me not taking you along to visit.”

“...are you jealous?”

Scoffs and rolls her eyes. Pauses. “The fact that I have refused to marry likely does not help.”

“I have...wondered about that.”

“...Bran had a vision, before we went south together. He told me there would be a true heir for Winterfell.” More quietly. “He knew I was worried Jon was dead or imprisoned, we weren’t sure which. Bran is unable to have children, and I...well, regardless of if I ever do marry again, I will never be intimate with anyone. That has been entirely ruined for me.” Looking away.

“...you mean...”

“Yes.” Simply, still not looking at Margaery. “However it happens, though, there will be an heir. So I will not wed, and that is all there is to it. Being the Queen as its privileges, but the Hand of the Queen has less. And a Southron lady separated from her family, even less so.”

“Could they force me to marry?” Concerned now.

“No, no. But they could be...insistent. Persistent. Tenacious.” Annoyed again.

Margaery thinks, then decides. “You have to go. And leave me here.”

“Are you sure?” Guilty now. “It feels as though I’m throwing you to the wolves.”

“I’m the Hand of the Wolf Queen. Doesn’t that make me at least half-wolf myself?”

“Oh, no.” Sansa is laughing now. “You are many things, Margaery, but a wolf is not one of them. You are, however, a rose and those have their own protection, don’t they?”

“True.” Smiling herself now. “Though I may not have as many suitors as you believe. I am not the fresh young flower I once was.”

“Is that the infamous Margaery Tyrell I hear fishing for compliments?” Snorts. “Surely not.”

“It isn’t fishing, it's the truth.” Scoffing herself and settling back in her seat. “I know i’m not the great beauty I was before, and I shall never be again. Those days are done, and it is best to accept that and move on than to dwell on things you cannot change.”

“I will not debate with you whether or not you are as beautiful as you were a decade of war and winter ago.” Tilting her head to the side. “It doesn't change the fact that you are still beautiful and would likely have no trouble turning the head of any Northern born men you desired.”

“And therein lies the rub.” To herself.

“Hm?”

“An unfortunate waste, as I have no interest.”

“Well, no need to be gentle with them, at least. They tend to have exceptionally thick skins and skulls up here.”

“That is good to know.”

Something warm sparks in Margaery’s chest at the conversation. 

The Queen thinks she’s beautiful.

Hm.

-090-

The stiffness would not go away. It began at the nape of her neck, and extended to near the middle of her back. It only ached in terms of attempting to move, but it was moving for an annoyance to an aggravation as she had to look up for the fourth time from the report to rub at it.

“...everything alright?” Sansa asked as she strode in and caught the tail end of it.

“Oh, yes. Simply...slept strangely on my neck.” Margaery, accepting the folio from her. “Are you finished packing yet?”

“Nearly. Everything will be prepared by tomorrow morning...do you need to see the maester?”

“Pardon me?” Pausing in her reading.

“You’re rubbing at it again.”

“No, I am fine.” Standing quickly, attempting to subtly stretch it out. “It’s honestly just stiff.” Rueful laugh. “Probably from all the sitting I’ve been doing. Wait until the harvest starts, and I won’t have ten minutes to sit, let alone all day.”

“Mm.” Frowning. 

“What?”

“You were out in the rain with me last night, inspecting the new plows.”

“Yes, but we both came in and got dry immediately after.”

Stepping a little closer, lowering her voice. “...do you have a large scar of any sort there, Margaery? On the back of your neck or shoulder?”

The lack of response was perhaps more telling than her wide, panicked eyes. Sansa didn’t touch her, in fact she very deliberately folded her hands in front of herself where Margaery could see them. That didn’t stop the words from leaving her mouth. 

“Scars can behave...strangely up here, when they get cold. Someone needs to see it Margaery, to be sure it hasn’t split or cracked.”

“...I think I would have noticed something like that.” Very quickly.

“You would think so.” Far too sympathetic. “But that isn’t always the case. If it's stiff enough you can barely move your neck, it needs to be seen. I can call maester-” Margaery’s jerk away is enough convey what she thinks of that idea. “Nona Wells, then. She is very capable. And discreet.”

“...no thank you.” Very quietly. Their gazes meet.

When an unstoppable force meets an unmovable object-

“Would you prefer to show it to me?”

Sansa did not intend to make that offer, but the words are out now. She cannot take them back.

“...yes please.”

“Let’s go somewhere more private, then.” Margaery is unusually quiet as they head back into the hall, and Sansa carefully fills the air. “I have at least two dresses I am more than happy to pass to you to be made over however you wish.” She’s essentially giving Margaery a reason to be in the queen’s quarters for awhile, alone, while also getting something she’s wanted to do for awhile which is to give Margaery more clothes. She has far too many she will never wear again (the memories tied to them making them unfit to touch her skin) but remade for Margaery is something she can support. 

Margaery grimaces, she’s been fighting against it for weeks, but...this is one round she’s lost. They’re in almost a debate about muslin vs chiffon for the summer months when the door is shut behind them and Margaery realizes they’re alone. 

“Uh-”

Sansa keeps rattling on about muslin, and simply shows Margaery where to sit on a backless bench and tosses in a flippant request to loosen her bodice while busying herself fetching a brown glass bottle. 

Margaery obeys, allowing the words of the discussion to keep her mind occupied as she bares her back to someone else for the first time in...years. And waits for the reaction.

There is none that she can hear, merely the quiet pop of a cork being pulled loose, and then...

Bliss.

The fingers started at the nape of her neck, then quickly flowed downwards and with them came release as the tension in the scar tissue bled away and she was finally able to move without pain.

A long sigh of relief.

“It’s working?” Sansa, between comments about different types of dyes.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Satisfaction. Still working.

“So...what am I to do if this happens while you’re gone?” When Sansa pauses for a breath. 

“I’ll leave the bottle with you. You shouldn’t need much, and I can get more from the maester before I go.” A pause. “And if you need assistance in the application part, Nona Wells is very gentle. And discreet.”

“...thank you.” Sighing again. “I...” Can’t find the words.

“It’s fine. It really is.” Still working.

“Who came up with this miracle ointment? Or is it a secret of the North?”

“You may have met him in Kings Landing. Maester Tarly.” A quiet laugh. “He isn’t half as stupid as he looks. He is, in fact, quite smart. And a good doctor. He delivered Selwynd, when Brienne had difficulties with the birth.”

“That’s high praise coming from you.”

“He earned it.” Going lower. “...how low do I need to go? I can’t tell in this light.”

“...my hips.”

“Alright.” Sansa falls quiet this time.

Margaery falls into a daydream. And makes a decided pronounced moan when skillful fingers unknot a particularly painful spot in her lower back.

Sansa stops, asks what hurts.

Margaery comes back to the present, feels her cheeks flame. “N-nothing. Just a...a memory.”

“Oh.” Goes back to what she was doing. “I’m sorry. I imagine this was quite painful.”

“It was, yes.”

Sansa falls silent again. Finishes, and carefully laces up the back of the dress after wiping her hands clean.

“There. That should be much better. And nothing burned, right?”

“No.”

“Good. I didn’t see any cracks, but you would have felt them. Trust me.” Dour. She turns away so Margaery can put herself back together. 

“No, its...it’s just perfect.”

“Good, good.” Looks up when she feels eyes on her, Margaery unnecessarily smoothing her bodice one last time as she watches the Queen. 

“Thank you.”

“None are needed-”

“For not asking.” Sansa falls quiet. “Because there are a lot of things you haven't asked. You are a queen, and you could have just demanded...and you didn't. And you never will, will you?”

“No.” Quietly. “Though I am always willing to listen, should you need it.”

The tears came. She’s caught entirely off guard by them. Sansa gingerly moves to hug her, and Margaery throws herself into it. It's warm and sincere and not remotely romantic. Somehow, that makes Margaery like Sansa all the more. 

Sansa is suddenly very glad she’s leaving for two months.

They feast that night, and Sansa retires at her usual time to put the children to bed. Selwyn is going with the Queen, she’s visiting a seaside holding that will be similar to his when he’s grown.

The others are asking what’s going to happen while she’s gone. Sansa laughs, as though they haven’t gone over this a dozen times. Margaery will tell the stories while she’s gone, Nona Wells will take care of the rest.

“But what about swimming?”

“Sir _____ and his squires will-”

Collective groans.

“He can’t really swim. Just sort of...not drown.” Michal, as tactful as ever. “Can you swim, Margaery?”

“Michal,” Nona Wells warned. “Not all ladies...”

“I can.” Gently overriding the nurse. “Or I could, when I was younger. But I haven’t in many years, and I will also be very busy while Aunt Sansa is gone this time.” More groans. “However...when Aunt Sansa returns, I promise to take some time to practice. That way, the next time she leaves I will come to your swim days at least some of the time.”

Cheers. The evening ends on a high note.

Margaery walks Sansa back to her quarters.

“I hope you meant that. About the swimming.” Sansa, seriously. “The children never forget a promise, once given.”

“I did. Also about needing practice again.” Making a face. “I was an avid rider, and my first day back in the saddle nearly killed me. Being an indifferent swimmer, I do not feel prepared to shepard small children at the heart tree pond just yet.”

“That’s fair.”

They say farewell, and part for the evening. Sansa is leaving at the crack of dawn the next morning. 

-090-

Brienne, reading a letter from Sansa and Selwyn. It came by sea, as they were on the coast when she wrote it. A boating trip to an island and daily explorations of the coast. Aunt Sansa laughing in the waves with him, and saying Aunt Margaery would like it too. He misses her too. By the time his mother gets this letter, they will probably be home in Winterfell again. Be strong and protect the King! Love Selwyn. A short note from Sansa at the end, that Selwyn stood on the deck of the ship like one born to it, and that he was fearless in the waves. How much he has grown and how his smile is just like hers. How kind he is. 

Bronn and Tyrion come in, it's drinking night, yay! Brienne shares the news, and they ask about Bronn’s wife. Happily ensconced in High Garden with her children, and sending him his due every month by courier. He’s sour about it.

Why?

In her hands, his allowance has gone up 50% per month!

He was being cheated!

The dues of being a lord.

He’s still pissed about it.

They drink.

-090-

Meera rode into Winterfell at the head of her small troop, the afternoon sun warm on her back and responding to the yelled greetings from familiar faces at the top of the wall.

She sees signs of other holds, more than she expects. She wonders if she isn’t actually needed, right up until she sees a group of them together. Hair neatly trimmed, dressed in their best and clearly trying too hard to impress as they watch one of their number practice at the archery buttes. She would have guessed swordplay would be the game of the hour, until she sees how the Queen positioned herself on the balcony above. The practice arms court would be entirely out of view, which left the men to the mercy of bow and arrow. Not that the Queen was really paying attention as she conducted business as usual. Margaery is beside her, taking notes.

Meera rolls her eyes and hops down, handing the reins to a groom she greets by name. She thought they were done with this foolishness. Her men disperse to their own tasks, and she takes the stairs two at a time to await the Queen’s pleasure.

The fact that Sansa immediately dismisses everyone but Margaery to greet her is a little gratifying. At least one Stark knows her worth.

“Lady Meera! I did not expect to see you for another week yet.” Clearly pleased as she rises, embraces Meera.

“Your grace.” Smiling. “Howland Reed would not have it said that he was anything less than generous with the Queen in the North.” Glancing below. “Though I see we are not alone in our generosity?”

“Yes, we are currently guesting 12 other volunteers to assist with the trapping.” Coolly glancing below as well.

“Hm...and what brought this on again?” More quietly. “I thought you had made your position more than clear. Unless things have changed...?”

“Hmm?” Glancing down at the ‘puppies’. “Oh, they’re not here for me.”

“...then who...?” Catching sight of Margaery’s rueful grin behind her. “Ah. Have you picked out which one you want?” Glancing back over her shoulder to see more than a few glancing their way from below. “You certainly have the best of the Northern Bachelors here, don’t you?”

“Is that jealousy I hear?” Margaery, smiling, looking down at her notes. “Well, don’t be. I have no interest in any of them, but I’ve never heard you mention a particular interest in anyone-” Glances up to be met with a particularly frosty glare. “What?”

“She doesn’t know, Meera.” Sansa quietly, hand on the smaller woman. “Let it go.”

A pause. Meera looks away. “You hate having them here like this, you call them yipping puppies. Why put up with it?”

“Free hands to help.” Sansa, motioning to Margaery. “Her idea.”

“They don’t look particularly useful.” Doubtful.

“It is a...limited usefulness.” Sansa, grimacing. “When a storm broke down a fence and some livestock needed to be retrieved, they were happy to ride their horses about nobly while finding the lost creatures. Being told we needed hands in the orchards collecting windfall...”

“Suddenly they are all very busy with very important things.” Margaery, scoffing.

“They would have been tripping over themselves to go if you had, though.” Sansa, to Margaery. They share a small smile that Meera catches and starts to wonder about. She was aware of Sansa’s very one-sided attraction to Brienne and how it had nearly ended very poorly. Oh dear.

“As though my plate is not full enough already.” The Hand, tsking to herself.

“Their intent, of course, in remaining is to...assist with the trapping season.” Brows lifted in amusement. “There are at least two bucking for your position.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any good news?”

“You have my full permission to order them about as much as you like in the bounds of your duties. They are here to work, put them to it or send them home in disgrace.” Glancing at Margaery who smiles and nods. “We are all helping. I spend at least half my day in the distillery, preparing lures for traps, and Margaery spends time learning to braid sinew and wax for repairs.”

“I’ve gotten pretty good, I think.” Smiling to herself. “And it's nice listening to the children chatter as they work.”

“Good. That might make it worth it after all.” Eyeing those below far less kindly than before. They seem to sense that, and the crowd quickly dissipates. 

Move it along!

Dinner that night, Sansa stands to welcome Meera and lay out some of what is to come.

One stands, youngest son of nobody important. Asks to learn from Meera directly, as an apprentice. One of the others scoffs, that if someone is to be Meera’s second in command it should be someone used to command. 

“He didn’t ask for a command.” Meera, standing slowly. “He asked to be an apprentice. To learn.” To Sansa. “Your grace, I’m amenable if you are.”

“Of course.”

Go on. Each evening two of the visitors sit with the Queen for the evening meal, one to either side. Meera and Margaery bookend the group. They always try to convince Margaery to stay when the Queen retires for the evening, she always refuses. 

By the time the story is over, Sana finds Meera already in her private study drinking tea on the third night. 

“Who are you and what have you done with Meera?” Her grace is not entirely joking.

“They will not shut up about the beautiful Lady Hand, and I thought you would rather I invade your private study then stab one in the face.”

“Yes, thank you.” Pouring for herself and Margaery. 

She has been growing more concerned for Sansa, realizing just how attached she is to Margaery...but then she catches Margaery watching the Queen when she isn’t looking.

Oh. 

Well. One less thing for her to worry about now.

It's been two grueling months. Another harvest at the same time, and even Sansa and Margaery dress for work and toil in the fields at the height of it. 

One evening, Margaery wakes with a snort having dozed off by the fire as Sansa and Meera chat quietly beside her. 

“Do you think they would still yearn for their lady love if they knew she snored?” Meera, teasing.

“Of course they would.” Sansa, too tired to self-censor. “She outshines everyone else here.”

Margaery colors prettily, and Meera’s brows rise. Sansa quickly stands.

“I am to bed. Stay as long as you like, I will see you both in the morning.” She leaves.

Meera glances at the retreating queen, then back at Margaery who is still pink-cheeked. Snorts.

“Setting your sights a bit higher than a lord’s son?”

“Pardon?”

“You know, she, the queen...she won’t ever....be with anyone. Ever again.” Seriously. 

“Yes, I know.”

“...you could do worse than those puppies, you know. They aren’t bad men. Some of them would probably make the right woman very happy.”

“That woman isn’t me.”

“What’s wrong with them? Not rich enough? Or powerful enough?”

“...not female enough, if we’re being honest.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Well...that’s fair, I suppose.”

“How do the old gods feel about...that?” Waving a hand. “Two women or two men...?”

“Fucking each other?” Lacing her fingers together. “They don’t really have an opinion on that matter. Following the old gods is more about honor. About building a future for your family and doing your part for the whole.” Shrugs. “Although what that honor means can be vastly different, family to family.”

“Then, how does it work? If honor is different, but you must work together, make alliances...”

“The North does not give you a choice. Any man or hold that chooses to stand alone chooses death. Our land is not the soft, easy land of the south.” More quietly. “And we take our word and our oaths seriously. None who outright betrayed the Starks still exists. They were destroyed, root and stem, by the war and then by the winter that followed when they chose to go it alone.” Taking a long drink. “And those who did not rebel but would not stand against the Night King are diminished. A stain on their family reputation that will not be easily forgiven. They are not represented at the Vigil, and few will show their face at the Winter Rose Festival.”

“You have a Rose Festival?” Surprised. “Sansa...her grace never mentioned it.”

Meera’s earlier look grows more certain, and Margaery steadily ignores it. “Remind me, and I will show you the bush and tell you the story another time. I think her grace might have the right idea. Morning comes soon, and with it the work.”

The next four weeks are a blur. After the traps are set and sprung, there is the collecting and the harvesting. Meera keeps an obsessive tally of what was taken from where and catches one young lord trying to take a few extra. Quickly dismisses him, publicly. No one else tries after that. 

Her apprentice is doing well. He doesn’t ask about the Queen or Margaery, doesn’t overstep his bounds and works hard. Meera says as much to the Queen, who notes that his approach of Margaery was token at best. Meera brings up Margaery, and he agrees that she is beautiful. 

“You are doing well. This will surely gain the Queen’s favor. And perhaps her Hands as well.”

“Ah. How...very fortunate for me.”

“That’s not convincing in the least.”

Turns out he genuinely wants the job, and his designs are one of the cooks. They met during the Winter at Winterfell, and she comforted him over the loss of two of his brothers. 

“You’re the son of a lord. He’s never going to approve.”

“If I get this post as the Queen’s Yeoman and she approves the match he won’t have a choice.” Stubbornly. “Got two others before me t’be head o’the hold. And the oldest is wed with a babe on the way. There’s few enough women of rank left after all that happened, and none got my heart like my Hallie.”

“...it might work.” He perks up hopefully. “Might. First, thought, you need to be the best damned Yeoman there is. Work hard, don’t go wandering off after your cook until the prize is in hand, yeah?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Good.” Claps him on the back, moves on.

That night, Sansa is called on by a visitor after dinner, tells Margaery to go rest and sends her on to bed. Margaery runs into Meera along the way. The younger girl has clearly been drinking, sitting in an alcove alone.

“Meera, are you alright?”

“Fuck love.”

“Excuse me?” Surprised.

“Fuck love.” Pause. “Y’want t’see the roses?”

“...are you able to walk?”

“Yes, yes...” Getting up surprisingly steady. “Hmm....this way.” Heads off. Margaery follows, curious now.

They get to the greenhouse unchallenged, partially because Margaery waves away people and guards who approach them. Meera strides straight in and then straight out, coming around to a small planter against the glass wall. 

“This is them.” Meera, staring at the small bush. “They bloom silver blue. Somethin’ ‘bout...special...crossbreed...” Waves a hand. “Three years. They only bloom once every 3 years in summer. It happens, we have a festival. Yay!”

“...oh.” Having not grabbed her wrap, Margaery is cold and wraps her arms tightly around herself. “They sound...most impressive.”

“I guess. Yeah.” Waving a hand. “______ isn’t interested in you.”

“Ok.”

“He wants to marry a cook. The Queen’s cook. So he’s taking this post...for love. Fucking love! Fuck love.”

“Meera?” Margaery, getting worried again.

“Don’t love a Stark, Margaery.” Turning towards her. “Doesn’t end well. Not for any of us. Shit! Talisa and Lady Catelyn, murdered at a wedding. Jon killed both women he loved. Theon died protecting BRan, and Gendry...that poor sap’d given up being a lord if Arya’d only asked him. Asha died for Rickon and Bran, and me an’ Jojen...” Mirthless laugh. “It has t’be love, though, why else -why the fuck all else-!

“Margaery?” Sansa from the doorway. “Meera, what...?”

“Fuck love, your grace.”

“Ah.” Understanding. Walking out, taking the bottle from her. “You’re going to be very sorry about this tomorrow, Meera.”

“Then it will be like every day since I brought fucking Bran back to fucking Winterfell.”

“...yes, I know.” Quietly. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“...yeah, alright.”

Margaery doesn’t have to be asked to take Meera’s other arm. They steer her inside and get her to her room. Get her onto the bed and Sansa removes her boots and belt, then rolls her under the covers. It's clear she’s done this before. Finishes, but instead of leaving she sits on the bed and leans over to smooth Meera’s hair away from her flushed face.

“...I’m sorry, Meera.”

“Why?” Barely coherent. “Wasn’t you.”

“I know.” Sighing. “Try to sleep. I’ll send Nona Wells to tend to you in the morning.”

“She’ll lecture me.” Grumbled.

“You might deserve it.”

“Heartless bitch.”

“This is true.” Smoothing the covers. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Waves Margaery out ahead of her. They get into the hall, and Sansa sighs. “I’m sorry about that, but thank you for staying with her.”

“What did Bran do to her?” Unable not to ask.

“He became the 3-eyed raven, and I’m not sure she’ll ever forgive him for it.”

Which isn’t really an explanation, but something else interrupts them and before she can elaborate they’re both turning in for the night to start the cycle anew tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAIT A MINUTE, THIS STORY IS INCOMPLETE!
> 
> Yes, it is! It said so in the description, but sometimes those details get skipped over. If you would like further information, please continue on. If you’re done, feel free to skip to the end and leave a kudo or a comment to let me know what you thought!
> 
> SO: Why post incomplete fanfiction?
> 
> Because I am an adult with a life and responsibilities and honestly, I write fanfiction 100% for me. I decided to post what I wrote for whoever else wants to to enjoy. If you do, great! If you don’t, that isn’t really my problem. I feel less bad than you may imagine because at the very least, I give you the arc of each story. Nothing I post ends on a cliffhanger, and I’m not stringing along with promises of ‘more to come soon, fingers crossed!’ This is what it is. IF I come back to finish ANY story, it will be because something happened that inspired that. Rewatching old favorite shows or reading favorite books or whatever the case may be. Yelling at me to write more probably won’t help, but I can’t stop you from trying.
> 
> In fact, have questions? Concerns? Ideas? A burning desire to know more? Email me at impatient_panda@aol.com. 
> 
> Best Wishes, fandom hunters!
> 
> impatient_panda


	4. Part 4

The rest of the Harvest goes well, and the apprentice distinguishes himself. He knows the work well, and Meera says as much. Pending a successful Wild Gather in four months, he has the post. Much rejoicing!

About half the puppies leave, but four persistent ones stay at Winterhold and three others temporarily relocate to the nearby hold to help with some project. Offered their assistance when the Queen asked if any would be willing to assist, obviously an attempt to impress Margaery. Figure out the various families and the political strengths and weaknesses. Obviously Margaery intends to accept none of them, but she understands she cannot simply ignore them all forever. Eventually something will have to be done.

The Vigil arrives. 

Figure out the ritual and the symbolism around it. There will be a meal of silence, and all stay awake through the night. Speaking quietly. Remembering those who fought and those they lost and those who triumphed. At the dawn they go out, and light the pyre. During the time that they are lighting the pyre the hall is stripped of black and the banners of those who attend hang brightly all around. And they return to a death feast that is loud and boisterous and lasts nearly a full day. Margaery remains awake and present for the entire ceremony, though she does not participate directly as she knows she was not there for the actual event. Sansa is privately very pleased by this, having not discussed it with her before. 

A month later, at breakfast, a servant brings Sansa a tiny cluster of buds on her breakfast plate. Margaery recognizes them as rosebuds immediately. Sansa breaks into a wide smile.

The ravens are sent, and within a week plans are in full swing. The Rosebush will technically bloom twice, which means the festival will be in 8 weeks. Margaery is very busy between her usual duties and the many visitors coming. Figure out everything the festival entails. Contests of strength and wit and skill. Margaery thoroughly enjoys watching with the Queen. 

The puppies reemerge in force by the time it is four weeks from the big night, and there is dancing every night after dinner. Margaery is surprised the first time the Queen returns after putting the children to bed, though she understands that with that many visitors it would be rude of her grace to sequester herself every evening regardless of her own preferences. Margaery doesn’t have to return, but she does and finds herself quickly roped into the dancing as well. It's hard to resist, because she does love to dance even if her partner is not who she would wish to dance with. It helps that she thinks the Queen enjoys watching her dance. 

She is taking one such turn when Howland Reed, recently arrived from his castle in the south, comes to sit with the Queen. Sansa praises his daughter’s work, and he thanks her for her gracious words. But she’s known this man since she was a child, and can sense there is something lse he wishes to say.

“I would hope, Lord Reed,” she said quietly when the lull stretched a bit too long. “That you can be as frank with me as you were my father.”

“I would hope so as well, your grace.” Giving her a slight bow from his seat. “Only...are all preparations in place for the final night? Or is there anything you require assistance with?”

“Why? Is there something you believe requires your assistance?” She has left most of it to Margaery, who is efficient and competent.

“...have you decided who will be the Lady of Roses, your grace?”

The words hang between them, and Sansa lets her eyes rest on the dancers below. Tells herself she is not looking for one in particular, only...enjoying seeing so many of her people so very happy.

“My mother was always the Lady of Roses during the Festival.” Thoughtful. “The three that I can recall, at any rate. 

“Had you not gone to Kingslanding, your father would have likely crowned you at the next were you still unwed.” Howland, gently. “I do not believe anyone would think poorly of you if you crowned yourself.”

“I do not need another crown.” Pointed.

“...then, who shall be crowned, your grace?” Waving a hand at the overcrowded room. “You certainly have plenty of options.”

Sansa looks over the crowd, and names through some of the ladies in the crowd, married and unmarried. Even one who is still too young to wed, barely more than a girl. But with naming any of them will have consequences. There is an expectation that the naming is not just for show, it carries a weight of it's own and there will be expectations for any woman she names. Sponsorship, or perhaps a royal appointment of some sort. A position of trust and power. 

Except for Margaery, of course, because she already has the highest position she can besides that of Queen. 

Something in her face must give it away, because he nods and hums and agrees that it does neatly solve the problem, except...

“Except...?” Sansa repeated, turning to look at him carefully.

“Who will dance with her?”

Ah.

“You have time to decide, though,” he added as though that were an afterthought. “The steps are very easy to learn. For anyone.” Hiding a smile. 

“...what did Meera tell you, Howland?”

“Nothing, your grace.” Turning back to her. “Was there something she should have told me?”

“What did the Starks do to earn such a loyal friend in you?”

“They led well, and I have no doubt you will continue to do so.” Raising his cup to her. She drinks with him. 

“Come, then, you have a job to do.” Rise abruptly.

“I do, your grace?” Surprised.

“Yes.” Amused. “Who else is going to teach me the dance?”

Margaery tries not to be disappointed when she glances next at the high table, and the Queen is nowhere to be seen. She is a little less vigorous in her dancing with no particular audience, though. Eventually Meera swoops in and rescues her. Says something came up, but everything is fine. Her father went with the Queen. Margaery likes Howland, and lets it go.

The same thing happens the following two nights, and Margaery suspects something is going on but everything is busy, busy, busy. They get back to the usual routine of things. Margaery is planning most of the feast, and she knows there’s some ceremony involved but Sansa tells her not to worry about it, she’s seen to the details, and that all is in order for the event. Margaery, already juggling fourteen plates in the air, figures this is fine with her.

Before this there are negotiations, meetings, etc etc etc. The Festival is an excuse to air grievances and make pacts and trade favors and all sorts of things. The Queen is not in the middle of all of it, but Margaery is asked to sit in on some on the Queen’s behalf. VERY BUSY.

Then it's the night of the Feast. 

Sansa and Margaery are entering together when one of the lords pushes himself forward. He has brought with a cask of rosehip brandy, brewed from the last time the rosebush bloomed and gifted to the winner of some contest. It is quickly breached, and shared among everyone. They drink, and it is breathtakingly strong. Sansa manages not to sputter, and breathes deep afterwards with the taste of rose on her lips. A Mormont gift. 

An excellent start to things. 

She begins her speech. Good harvests! Fair trade! The strength of the North! We shall prevail!

Many cheers.

“But of course, what you’re all waiting for is for me to crown myself Lady of Roses so the real fun can begin.”

Cheers and laughter. A servant brings forth the crown of silver-blue roses. Margaery hasn’t seen it yet, Sansa is the one who chose the blooms, removed the thorns and wove it into a crown some hours before. She doesn’t remember if her mother created the crown herself, but knowing who she intends to crown she wanted no one to touch it save herself. “Yet...I already have a crown. One I wear with both humility and honor. I am not so greedy as to need another, so we must find another head to place it upon.” More cheers. “But who should wear it? We have many fine ladies in our court. ________ who ________ the ______. Lady Meera, __________. _________? ________ of ________? Young ________? The venerable _______?” More and more cheers. “I propose someone else. Someone who has worked tirelessly for the good of the North. Who has blah blah blah the rose symbolizes not just rare beauty, but rare strength. She can see many of her folk have got the drift of her speech, and seem pleased by it. She glances at Margaery who is clearly focused on the crowd, trying to guess who will be crowned.

Good.

“Lady Margaery?”

“Yes, your grace?” Looking up, surprised. 

“Do you accept the honor, Lady Margaery of being crowned Lady of Roses?”An ironic lift to her brow that only Margaery can see. 

She does and is crowned. 

“And now for the dance.” Taking Margaery’s hand and leading her down to the floor.

“Who shall lead her, your grace?” Meera Reed, from the crowd.

A brief pause, considering. “I will.” 

Margaery feels her cheeks pink, but smothers the shock before it can register on her face. The dance is simple, a line-partners type dance. Back and forth, slow turns. The Queen is quick and light on her feet, and Margaery quickly finds herself focusing on that. The first pass they are alone, but then others join in as is customary. Sansa firmly rebuffs any attempt to ‘cut in’, and maintains her position at the head of the queue for the entire reel. At the end, raises Margaery’s hand.

“The Lady of Roses, friends! Let us celebrate, and it shall not stop until the sun rises again!”

More cheers. Margaery is quickly pulled into another dance and the Queen returns to her seat to accept the well-wishes of her lords and ladies and share a drink with them.

Margaery dances until she thinks her legs will fall off. A few times the Queen is coaxed into joining again, and whirls by in the arms of another lord. Her cheeks are flushed, but her eyes are clear and her steps steady. When the Lady Hand begs a break, she sees the Queen moving through the crowd. She pauses at any who stop her, and kisses them on each cheek while saying something she can’t hear.

Her companion sees her watching the Queen. “They are asking for her blessing, for health and luck.”

“Why health and luck?” Adjusting her crown of roses.

“It’s two things every man or woman can use to prepare. For as the Starks say: Winter is Coming!” Others around him roar the same, and they all drink.

More dancing. Margaery sees many others request the kiss, several of them unmarried men. She notices Sansa firmly takes hold of every man she kisses, giving them no room for mischief. Hearty, loud kisses with nothing gentle about them. The women (few as they are the later the evening goes) she is softer with, save Meera who receives the loudest smooches of all (accompanied by cheers and whistles and hoots.) Sansa laughs and Meera pretends to swoon.

Margaery feels something in her gut clench. She happens to be dancing with Howland, and he laughs. Something about it's good to know the others do not wish to appear ridiculous again. At the front, Sansa had too many suitors. Until Meera came and ‘out suitored’ them all. No one wished to be the butt of a joke, and it quickly ended there.

“No, our Queen has not courted nor shown preference for anyone since she was crowned. Of course,” chuckling a bit, “Were you a man, there would be dozens of rumors about you with as much time as you spend together closeted away.” A brief pause. “You being a woman, there’s only half as many as that.”

“The Queen and I have never-”

“We don’t care.” With a kindly smile. “Whatever it is or isn’t happening, so long as the North prospers and the Queen is happy, it doesn’t matter.”

“I see.”

“How are you faring with the pups?” After neatly rebuffing one trying to cut in.

“They may have outlived their usefulness. I believe I shall need to speak to the Queen about sending them away, politely of course.”

“She’s already taken care of that.”

“She has not, they’ve been hounding me all night.” 

“Of course, this is their last chance. And half of them probably didn’t read into what happened, but their fathers and uncles did. The Queen crowned you, then took the dance for herself. Short of a betrothal announcement, she could not have been more clear in her intent to ward the others off.” The dance finishes, and Howland nabs two drinks for them while neatly tucking Margaery to the side to make it clear she is to be left alone for a bit. Continuing on, “Tomorrow, if a single one is still yapping at your heels, I would be shocked.”

“...I see.” Glancing across the room and catching Sansa’s eye. Feeling her chest warm at the smile sent her way.

“Good. Because as smart as they say you are, I was afraid I might have to paint a fucking picture.” Taking another drink. “And I’m a terrible artist.”

She laughs, and lets a puppy steal her for another dance. It's easier to accept when she knows this is likely the last time. Also, Sansa is watching again. And she likes it when Sansa watches her dance.

The crowd keeps them apart most of the night. Then there is the incident. Something goes awry with a room -an unexpected guest? Miscount of rooms being used? They’re one short! Oh no!

The Queen mentions giving them her room and she’ll go and stay with Meera, it wouldn’t be the first time. 

Margaery and the Head Maid both overrule her, it wouldn’t be proper. Insult to the crown. Blah blah.

“Give them my room.” Margaery, simply. “I will catch a nap in the Solar, and then-”

“Don’t be silly, if you’re giving up your room then you can come stay with me.” To the servant. “Deliver Lady Margaery’s things to my rooms, you can put them in the second room for the time being. It's mostly empty.”

“Yes, your grace.” Pleased smile that Sansa may have questioned, but she has had quite a bit to drink and Margaery is standing very close to her which is very distracting.

“Are you sure?” Margaery, leaning in even closer. “I wouldn’t want to intrude-”

“The bed is monstrously huge, you could probably sleep six on it comfortably.”

“Really?” Curious. “Why?”

“The late Walda Frey, wife of the late Roose Bolton, was...rather large, and he had the bed specially commissioned so they could ‘sleep comfortably’.”

“And you kept it because...?”

“It was useful, and then because there was always something more important to deal with. During the Winter, following the battle of the Long Night, we stuffed nearly 5,000 survivors in this castle. The lords and ladies chambers housed nearly twenty people, and wherever there was a warm space someone slept. There was no time to erect the Winter Town, so we made do. Brienne and I and two other unmarried women shared the room at the end of the hall.”

“That’s practically a closet!”

“We still had more room than many.” A wry smile. “After...it seemed vain to ask the carpenters to make a more reasonably sized bed when we needed barns and granaries and tables and chairs and tools....when there’s time, I’ll have it replaced.”

“And when will that be?” Teasing.

“When the roses come again, maybe.” Adjusting the crown on Margaery’s head carefully. Then abruptly yawning.

“Perhaps you should see the Queen to her bed, before she falls asleep on her feet.” Meera, to Margaery.

“They are certainly capable of celebrating without me, I suppose.” To Margaery. “You are welcome to stay-”

“No, I have danced enough for the next three years.” Laughing.

“Well, then, we must have a proper send off.” Meera hops onto a table, stomping her foot and roaring to get everyone’s attention. “Quiet, you lot!”

It does.

Sansa says a few words. Bids them a good night, and leaves to the cheers of ‘the Queen in the North! The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North!”

The smile on Sansa’s face is contagious. She laughs. 

“Care to share the joke?” Margaery, linking her arm with Sansa’s.

“No joke. Just a good day to be Queen.” Sansa, smile growing.

“Then I’m glad I got to be here for it. With you.” Smiling all the more in turn.

“As am I.” They enter the Royal Apartment.

It's the second time Margaery has been there. Describe. Nona Wells is there, stoking the fire. Sansa asks where Isabelle is, then promptly corrects herself. Of course, most of the servants have the night off for their own celebration. 

“Why are you here, though? You know I’m perfectly capable of starting a fire-”

“When you aren’t soaked in ale, yes.” Dourly. “It’d be a shame if the fumes accidentally ignited your pretty red hair, your grace.” Smiling faintly. “Besides, our Lady of Roses is still not used to the cold, and we don’t wish her to catch a chill.”

“Catch a chill? From what, sleeping on the floor?” Divesting herself of crown and mantle, far too carefully attempting to put them on their stands.

“Here, let me.” Nona Wells, taking them from her hands. “Are you unable to undress yourself as well?”

“I will manage.” Cooly, mustering what dignity she can. “Thank you, Nona. You may go now.”

“Of course, your grace. And I let the kitchen know you’ll breakfast in your rooms tomorrow. Not that I expect you’ll eat much-”

“Thank you, Nona, I think that will be all.” Margaery, ushering the older woman out the door. “I’ll see to her grace from here.”

“Not tonight, drunk as she is.” Grumbling. “Silly fool.”

Margaery’s brows rise.

It occurs to her that if Sansa didn’t explain her actions to anyone but Howland...and now she’s sleeping in the Queen’s chambers...

Ah.

Considers.

It appears Howland was right, and nobody cares.

Which means...why not?

“Did she say something?” Sansa, coming from behind the screen. She’s in a nightgown and is belting a robe about her waist. Sinks into a chair by the fire, and begins to undo her braids.

“Let me.” Margaery takes the brush, and gently begins to pull it through the long, fire-kissed locks. It feels every bit as good as she always thought it would. (Look up how Sansa has her hair at the end). 

“Margaery?” Around a yawn.

“Hm?” A bit mesmerised by the locks slipping through her fingers. 

“This might be a rude question. I am definitely a little...drunk.”

“You’re surprisingly lucid if that’s the case.”

“Tyrion. I learned...by watching Tyrion.” Around another yawn. “The least offensive of the men I attached myself to. He was very good at it, being drunk and not appearing to be.” Snorts. “And at appearing to be drunk when he wasn’t.”

“A useful skill.” Enjoying the way Sansa sighs and leans into touch of Margaery fingers combing through the nape of her neck. “Ask your rude question.” Tilting Sansa’s head back so their eyes meet.

“...why do you wear this?” Reaching up to touch Margaery’s head wrapping. “I thought maybe the cold at first, but even at the height of the heat-”

“...a necessity, at first. Then perhaps vanity.” Swallowing. “It’s not what it once was.”

“Most things aren’t.” Gently. “Show me?”

“...alright.”

Margaery takes the head wrapping off. Her hair barely comes to her ears, the once brilliant chestnut locks now heavily threaded with grey. 

“Oh.” 

“You see?” Moving to replace the wrap. “It’s-”

“Beautiful.” Stopping Margaery’s hands with surprising ease. “Leave it. It can’t be comfortable to sleep in.”

“...it’s not.” Quietly. 

Margaery is staring at Sansa’s lips, then notices how much the Queen is swaying.

“Sweetling?”

“Hm?”

“How drunk are you?”

“...very.”

“Let’s get you to bed.” Pulling her to the bed. Helping her out of her robe and under the covers.

By the time she makes it back to the bed, Sansa is dozing. Douses the lamps and candles and climbs in beside her. The bed truly is enormous, but Margaery finds herself migrating to the middle and a moment later Sansa rolls into her. It's not quite cuddling, but they are very close together. 

It's absolutely perfect.

-090-

Sansa wakes to a pounding head and sour stomach, and lets out a brief groan as opening her eyes feels a bit like being stabbed in the face.

“Sweetling?”

A voice that close in her own bed makes her jump, and her head immediately protests. A brief glimpse of Margaery with her grey, short locks before she buries her head back in her pillow at least catches her up to the present.

“Oh, sorry. Sorry, it's just me.” Smoothing her hair back from her face. Her hands feel wonderful. “Sweetling?”

“Hm?”

“You aren’t going to be sick, are you?”

“Rarely.” Eyes still tightly shut.

Isabella comes in. The tray is prepared with several items, including Margaery’s usual breakfast and the usual stack of messages and reports.

“How is her grace this morning, my lady?” Isabella addresses Margaery.

“Very sorry she drank that much, I believe.” With a small smile.

“So it seems.” Bringing over a cup. “If you can get her to drink this, it will help. Do you know if she would like a cold or hot bath first?”

“Cold, and she is capable of answering for herself.” Growled from the pillow.

“Do you require the screens, your grace?”

Sansa is drinking pauses. “Hm?”

“Screens, as I will begin with the messages as soon as her grace is in the tub.” Margaery, quickly. 

“Yes, my lady.”

Sansa just looks confused. But also still hurting, so she lets it go. Margaery helps her up, out of the bed and Isabelle assists her to the tub. Margaery belts on her robe just before Sansa disappears behind the screen and divests herself of the sweaty nightgown. Ale in that quantity always makes her sweat. 

The sound of someone else puttering about is soothing, and Sansa braces herself against the cold as she sluices away the sweat and dirt of the night before. Her hair is carefully braided up out of the way. Halfway through Isabelle hands her a hot mug of honey lemon water, and she quickly gulps it down. The headache is still there, but the fog is receding and her stomach settling. 

The hot water comes next. That she soaks herself in, but notices twice the kettles as usual.

“Planning on soaking me until I prune, Isabelle?” Motioning to the spares.

“No, your grace, I believe Lady Margaery may wish to bathe as well after such a...rigorous party.”

“Oh.” Of course. How stupid. Though there is something about Isabelle’s grin.

“Yes, I will gladly do so if her grace has finished when I am done with this missives.”

“Anything of interest?” Taking that and her growling stomach as her cue to get a move on.

“There is a raven from the maesters.” A long pause.

“What is it?”

“They are predicting either a false autumn or that winter is returning.

Sansa doesn’t respond immediately. The sound of water splashing comes, as she rinses herself off and rises from the tub. When she comes around the screen, robed and clean, Margaery catches her gaze with concern on her face.

“Winter is coming, eventually,” Sansa said simply. “But unlike the last one, we are prepared. Still, a full inventory of our stores and a projection of the coming harvest cycle would be good. We can make our plans based on what that says. Alright?”

“Alright.” 

“You’ll need new clothes, of course. To protect you from the cold.”

“I brought clothes with me-”

“Yes, and those should see you through the fall but won’t do anything against a proper winter storm.” Wry smile. “Not this far north.”

“...very well, I defer to your judgement in this area. You look as though you are feeling better.”

“I am. Food will help even more.” Moving to the table. “The tub is yours, and Isabelle will be more than happy to assist-”

“Actually, I wondered if we might speak first. In private.” Glancing at Isabelle apologetically.

“Isabelle, please wait outside for a moment.” The girl obeys quickly. “What is it? Did something happen last night?”

Startled laugh. “No, nothing happened last night. Which might be the problem.”

“....I don’t understand.”

“I think you do.” Stepping closer. “Though perhaps I should simply be blunt. That is the Northern way, after all.” Taking Sansa’s hands.

“Usually, yes-” Confused.

“I want to kiss you.”

“...oh.”

“Oh?” Confused.

“Why do you want to kiss me?” Seriously. “Did...did Howland say something to imply that this would be...expected of you?”

“Expected? Not as such.” Faltering. “Only that, given that you crowned me and then danced with me-”

“Yes, if one of us had been a man, tradition would have...nearly dictated such. And I will admit, I did not disabuse anyone of any conclusion they came to on their own in hopes that it greatly diminishes the number of suitors hanging about Winterfell when the lords and ladies go home. But you re in no way required-”

“Of course I’m not.” Blinking up at Sansa. “And why is it so hard to believe someone might want to kiss you?”

“Because I literally cannot recall a time when anyone has wanted to without ulterior motive.” Refusing to meet her eyes. “A theory that has been proven true over and over again.”

“And what about those you wished to kiss?”

“That was proven equally disastrous for me.”

“Have you ever kissed a woman?” Suggestive lilt to her voice.

“...yes.” Cheeks pink now. Still frowning.

“...sweetling, did you try to kiss Brienne?” Sansa’s eyes snap to her in disbelief and anger. “No, she didn’t tell me. I tried to kiss her as well. I was also rather drunk. She very politely told me no. And yes, her decision to stick with men is a tragedy for women in the whole of Westeros but...that doesn’t mean I can’t want to kiss you and mean it. Or that you can’t want to kiss me in turn.”

“...I can’t.”

Slowly letting go of Sansa’s hands. “Can’t? Or don’t want to.”

Sansa reaches out this time to catch her arm. “I want to. But I can’t.”

“Your people don’t care, neither do your gods. Why-”

“I told you, I can’t...be intimate. With anyone. I don’t...”

“I don’t care about scars or marks, if that’s what-”

“No, no I...” Fully embarrassed now, blurting it out. “It doesn’t...feel good. It disgusts me. Even...even touching myself, I...it brings back things and then either I’m....panicking in a corner, or throwing up everything I ate and....I can’t. I can’t. And I won’t ask you to try and pretend like that would be alright. Not when you deserve better. More. Everything.” Desperately pleading with her eyes now. “Yes, I know how the lords would take the crowning and the dancing. I wanted them to think that. To stop flinging their sons and nephews and grandsons at you like some tasty treat to be snapped up. You’re more than that and you deserve someone who sees that. Someone who sees you, because-”

Margaery is kissing her.

It's like someone stole the air from her lungs.

“...it’s not fair to you.” Weakly. 

“We’ll figure it out.” On tiptoes to kiss her again. “Whatever it takes. However long it takes. I don’t care.”

Sansa’s hands coming up to cradle her face. “That’s a very big promise to make.”

“I think you’re worth it.” Leaning in to kiss her again.

“Your grace, I -oh!” The maester, with Isabelle trying to stop him. “You could have just said-” To the maid. 

“Maester _____, what is it?” Sansa, clearly annoyed and taking a step back from Margaery who restrains herself from following her. 

“A raven, your grace, from the wall.”

(Figure out what the news would be. Something that signals the end of summer, that the Grand Maesters don’t consider reliable but those of the North know better.)

Sansa nods. “No false Autumn, then. We must begin preparations immediately. Maester _____, summon the lords to the main hall in one hour. Isabelle, help me dress and then help Lady Margaery prepare as well.”

“Are we cutting things short, your grace?”

“No. Winter is months away at the least, and there are important matters at the table to discuss. However, some may wish to send their own ravens to begin preparations immediately. Best to tell them all at once and offer the use of our rookery, based on those who are farthest away. Those who are less than a week's ride can send a messenger by horse instead.”

“Yes, your grace. I will make the arrangements immediately.”

“Thank you.” Catching Margaery’s eye, and everything coming rushing back. Pink cheeks. 

Margaery is inordinately pleased by that.

“I’ll start my own bath, Isabelle, so you can dress her grace.” Maintaining eye contact with Sansa, and giving a teasing curtsey before slipping behind the screen.

She isn’t sure what happens after that, only that when she emerges clean a short time later Sansa’s face is still flushed and Isabelle looks far too pleased with herself. Despite this, Sansa is certain as she leans in to kiss Margaery before she leaves. 

“There is no reason you have to be there, but...I would like you there.”

“I won’t be long.” A promise.

“Good.” Sansa reaches for her crown, briefly checks that it's straight and strides out the door. 

That should not be as attractive as it is.

-090-

Margaery slips in as the last of the lords and ladies arrive, taking her place beside the Queen. Her eyes briefly find Sansa’s, a smile tugging at both their mouths, but a shout draws Sansa’s attention back up and she quickly smooths her face.

She gives them the news, and it is met with some disappointment. It always is. Offers of lending ravens and riders made, the festival will continue as planned. They will also be willing to discuss any aid a hold may foresee needing in terms of food, shelter or adequate winter gear. Reminders to seeing their own people properly shod and coated will mean fewer sick or frostbitten by accident. 

On to everything else!

The rest of the festival goes well, but is a blur of activity. Margaery only manages to steal a few small moments with Sansa, who works late and rises early.

One of the lords suggests the queen foster some of the young adults through the winter. A chance for them to get to know one another when there is little else to do. Sansa agrees, and twelve total young men and women are chosen to grace the court for the winter. They will be acting as ladies in waiting for the queen and men at arms for the court. There will be hard work at times, but also a great deal of down time to meet and socialize. And hopefully, there will be a wedding or two to celebrate in the spring! 

Margaery is especially excited about this, matching making! But it also decidedly sets the tone for how people view her and the Queen. This wouldn’t be suggested unless the Queen was considered ‘attached’. She likes that they consider the Queen attached. 

Head servant points out in passing that Margaery’s room will be required again, so perhaps it is a good thing she has settled things with the Queen? They should begin to rearrange the second room immediately, for whatever the Hand wishes it to be. Sansa agrees without thinking, and wonders what Margaery will think when asked.

Margaery loves it, and while she can’t properly thank Sansa due to the busy, busy, busy nature of things she has plans for when things finally slow down. 

Still too much work, though, and though they are staying together they rarely have more than spare moments privately. The visiting lords are taking every opportunity to steal a few moments with the Queen or her Hand and it shows. 

The day the last few head home, Sansa puts herself to bed as soon as the children are seen to and Margaery enacts a few plans before joining her. Breakfast in the Queen’s rooms, no disruptions until lunch, etc. Heads to bed herself with a bit of hope and anticipation.

She does not anticipate her own body betraying her. She wakes to the sun high in the sky, Sansa still in bed beside her eating a biscuit slathered in fresh butter and sipping at some tea with a book propped open on her lap. 

Sansa laughs at the frown of consternation Margaery gives her. “Good morning to you too. What? This wasn’t your idea?” Pouring a second cup.

“No, it was.” Grumbling. “However, I intended to wake you with a hot drink, not the other way around.” Sitting up and accepting the cup. “Thank you.” Ironic.

“You’re welcome.” Smiling down at her. “And you have been as exhausted as I have. I am glad you were able to sleep.” Brief kiss. 

That has moved much more slowly than Margaery would want, but she promised that she could be patient and simply enjoy what is currently available. Describe, describe, describe.

Also what’s gone wrong.

Do not grab Sansa’s wrists, ever. The panic hurt Margaery more than the ferocity of Sansa’s yanking herself away. Do not physically surprise Sansa (that one triggered a nightmare). No tickling. No lewd talk. No telling her how beautiful she is.

The boundaries hurt, up until she sees the panic and fear from bright blue eyes she thought to never see such from again. The realization that she is being trusted with a fragile, bruised gift. And the warmth that blooms in the same eyes when they catch Margaery’s. 

“A copper for your thoughts?” Sansa, setting her cup aside and rescuing Margaery’s from her hands. 

“A kiss would do instead.” Scooting closer. “From you in preference, in case that wasn’t clear.”

“And who else might you be kissing?” Mock jealousy. Allows herself to be drawn, awkwardly leaning over her companion. A soft kiss. 

Against Sansa’s lips as they linger. “I was thinking how much I like you on top of me.” Suggestively pulling Sansa closer.

“Do you?” Uncertainly. “Really?”

“Yes, sweetling.” Brief kiss. “I am not made of glass, you will not break me even with your strong northern muscles.” Teasing gently. 

“...I don’t want you to feel trapped. Or crushed Or-”

“Dearheart?”

“Yes?” Not meeting her eyes. “If I asked you to stop, or...move aside or simply to give me a moment, would you?”

“Yes, of course.” Quickly, concerned. Starting to pull back.

Margaery’s hold on her tightens, keeping her in place.

“Exactly. I trust you, because you will always put my comfort and wellbeing before your own. And I promise, sweetling -I promise- if it gets too much, I will tell you. Always. Yes?”

“...yes.” A bit hoarse. “What would you like me to do?”

So, so many things. But for now... “Come here.” Pulling, gently, aligning their bodies together. Sansa is comfortably settled between Margaery’s legs, weight still largely on her elbows as her companion fusses about being sure they’re both comfortable. Then gently coaxed Sansa down for a long kiss, easing more weight on herself. Makes a pleased sound as she sinks deeper into the mattress. 

“Good?” Sansa, a tad breathless as she explores carefully along her Hand’s lifted jaw, one eye always checking to be sure everything was ok. 

“Very good.” The hands on Sansa’s weight squeeze a little tighter. “I could stay here all day.”

“Ha!” Kissing her again. “They would never leave us alone that long. In fact, despite your orders I’m surprised-”

A knock on the door.

“Why would you say that?” Groaned into Sansa’s shoulder. “Even I know better-”

The knock comes again. “Your grace?”

“Yes, Isabella?” Sansa, reluctantly disentangling herself from Margaery.

“Yeoman _______ is here to speak with you.”

Margaery grumbling. “I did send him a message-”

“-as though he received your message but also wished to remind you he is leaving before noon with the volunteers to deal with the _______ and will not return for three weeks.”

“I will see him in my solar in ten minutes.” Getting quickly out of bed.

“That important?” Margaery, only grumbling a little.”

“Yes.” Regretful. “He is new, and this is his first winter as yeoman. Meera is returning in three weeks to help him prepare, but we cannot wait that long. There are a few preparations that must begin immediately.”

“I understand.” And the fact that she actually did is why Sansa flopped onto the bed fully dressed to kiss her again.

Isabella enters a moment later, sees the untouched tray and Margaery still in bed.

“Shall I have them prepare a tray for your study, ma’am?”

“No, as I will be returning after I am done speaking to him.”

Margaery perks up at that, and smiles dazzlingly when Sansa glances at her. Promise of more to come, yes.

Sansa leaves, Isabella only inquiring as to whether or not Margaery would like a bath drawn. Margaery declines, but decides to get up anyways. Dresses, and eats. In the middle of her meal, she is surprised by Selwyn entering.

“Selwyn?”

“You aren’t the queen.” Frowning at her.

“No, she had to go to an important-”

“What are you doing in her rooms?” Pointedly.

“...the queen allowed me to stay in her chambers, as we needed my room for guests.”

“The guests have left, why are you still here?”

“Well-” Uncertain how to address this with a child.

“Finally!” Sansa, firmly closing the door behind herself. “Now-....Selwyn?” The boy turns to her and grins. “What...oh. Oh, its-”

“You forgot?” Clearly surprised. “You don’t ever forget!”

“It’s been a very busy last few days.” Pulling him over to sit with her on the couch, tossing Margaery an apologetic look over her shoulder. “But this is your promised time. What did you bring me to read to you today?”

He stares at Margaery, who is still at the breakfast table. “Is she staying?”

“Yes, but she won’t interrupt with any work. I promise.” Throwing Margaery a smiling glance. “Perhaps she’ll even enjoy the story herself.”

Sansa is making eyes at Margaery through half of it, and Selwyn is annoyed by her distraction. Is grumbly when it's over and he’s sent back to his lessons. 

Initiates a conversation about Brienne as they share the remains of the breakfast. How she was easy to love. And safe. How it's different from how Margaery has grown in her heart.

Another interruption. Margaery promises they have tonight, and every night thereafter for as long as the Queen desires. They finish out the day mostly apart. Margaery is worried about the way Selwyn immediately pushes them apart when they enter for story time, but lets Michal draw her to the side and listens to Sansa tell the tale.

They decide to return early after that. A little later, cuddled together in the bed by firelight. 

“Tell me something I can do for you.” Sansa, nestled into Margaery’s shoulder. “Something that would make you feel good.”

“You can do whatever you want-”

“Tell me.” Half pleading. “I can’t...I need you to tell me.” Eyes meet. And there is a rawness there of permissions never given and gifts stripped away. Of arousal and lust and fear. 

“Here.” Taking Sansa’s hand and lacing it through her own. Drawing them together, tracing them down her shoulder and to one breast. “Touch me here.” Leading the way, showing her how. Sansa listens and watches instantly, noting the way the nipple forms to a hard peak with only a few gentle brushes, the soft sounds Margaery makes as she squeezes and the way she angles herself to bring them even closer together.

They end before Margaery would want, but she recognizes the panic in Sansa’s eyes and gently pulls back. They are both breathless and flushed. 

“...I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Kissing her, but reserved. To give her space. “You’re perfect as you are.”

“Hardly.”

“Perfect for me.” Snuggling close.

They sleep.

-090-

Middle of winter.

Describe the misery of the cold (both the weather and Selwyn’s disapproval) and the delight in their new company. Their evenings are not their own as much as she would like, but Sansa has made a point of carving out a little bit of time for them once a week or so.

Today it appears it will be a walk in the snow. She’s not particularly fond of the thought, but Sansa insists and the Hand of the queen relents. Take her somewhere special, a frozen waterfall. They enjoy the quiet and the cold together (with far too many layers between them for Margaery’s preference, but it is a beautiful day and nice to be out with Sansa alone.)

The snow crunches behind them. Sansa whirls, then freezes Margaery follows her gaze...to the largest wolf she’s ever seen.

The magnificently huge beast sits there primly, not moving a hair as it stares at them with wide, red eyes. 

Sansa hesitates, then says, “Ghost?”

The wolf lays down in the snow, and slowly turns his head to the side.

A collar. And what looked like a letter.

Sansa tells Margaery to stay where she is and approaches slowly. Ghost sniffs her extended hand, then licks it with a tongue that wraps entirely about her wrist.

“It is you.” Breathed in relief. “You shouldn’t scare me like, Ghost, it's not nice.”

The wolf gapes a grin and huffs at her. She gets the letter.

He offers his belly hopefully.

“...oh, alright.”

Margaery will never forget the sight of the Queen in the snow, scratching the belly of a giant beast fully capable of taking her head off with a single bite. Which was only trumped by said Queen motioning her over, introducing her to the wolf, and letting her pet the giant belly beside her. Margaery’s arm sinks up to her elbow in the fur, and she still hasn’t truly reached the skin beneath. 

And then the creature perks his great ears, gives Sansa a lick that leaves a visible trail from her shoulder to her hairline, and is gone.

“...was that...?”

“A direwolf.” Staring after him as she wipes uselessly at the slobber. “Jon’s direwolf, Ghost.”

“He’s enormous.”

“They all are, when fully grown.” Quietly. Looking at the letter.

“What does it say?”

“I’ll read it later. We had a little bit longer before we head back.”

“Yes we do.” Smiling. “And how shall we spend it?”

“Well...” More kissing.

But Sansa’s mind is not entirely in the present, and Margaery can tell.

Both at Winterfell, Sansa descends to the crypts and sits beside the carving of a direwolf there. Margaery finds her there, and asks who it is.

“Lady, my direwolf.” Laying her head against the stone wolf. “The first one to die in the south.”

Maybe they should have taken that as a sign.

Margaery just holds her. 

The letter details Jon’s adventures. He’s doing as well as can be expected. Life behind the wall is good for him. Blah, blah, blah.

-090-

I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“You want more. You need-”

“I need you. Whatever that may mean.”

“I can tell that you want this, Margaery, I’m not an idiot.”

“I never said you were-”

“Have you...are you able to pleasure yourself?”

“...I’m sorry?”

“With...with your hand, or...” Clearly out of her depth.

“Yes.” Slowly. “Though I generally prefer-”

“But you can.”

“Yes.”

“Do it.”

Go back and forth to-

“Show me how it can be good.”

“Alright.”

Margaery’s always been a bit of an exhibitionist. Watching as Sansa watches her, face flushed and eyes dark with desire...it makes it hard to not rush things.

She doesn’t want to rush this.

Hands brushing down her front, tweaking at breasts bared from her nightgown already and sinking at her belly. Curling down her thighs, before dragging over her mons, pulling the nightgown with it.

Her undergarment is already damp. It's a fairly perpetual state of being for her nowadays. Even the light brush of her palm over her hot center is enough to make her hips buck and draw a gasp from her lips.

The feather light kiss on her lips banishes all thoughts of patience. Her fingers quickly dive under the band of fabric at her belly, seeking and teasing the swollen folds already waiting and slick with her want.

Sansa kisses her again, but is distracted by her fingers and has her head turned slightly.

“Do you want to see?” Margaery, breathlessly.

“...do you want to show me?” Hushed.

“Always. Everything.”

“Show me.”

Margaery pulls the underwear away with one hand, baring herself as the other continues to tease and strokes.

Sansa is entranced.

The heady scent, the flexing of muscles, the flushed skin and bright eyes.

The shuddering peak. 

Margaery’s eyes close instinctively, but when she opens then again Sansa’s still staring at her intently.

She licks her lips. “Was it good?”

“Oh darling.” A little breathless. “The only thing that could make it better would be your fingers instead of me.”

“...really?” Blinks in surprise.

“Yes.” Pulling her closer, kissing. “Really.”

The lassitude is settling in, though, and it's been so long Margaery finds it quickly pulling her into sleep.

The next day they are mostly apart, and in the afternoon someone asks her if the queen is alright? She’s been very distracted all day?

Margaery can’t think of anything at the moment, trying to get her own work done.

Doesn’t think of it again until they’re alone that evening. It's fairly late, and Sansa is definitely distracted. 

“Is everything alright, sweetling?” Brushing out her hair with their nightly ritual. One of the few things Sansa can enjoy with no reservations.

“Hm?” Looking up.

“You’re distracted.”

“...I’ve been thinking about something.” Quietly. “But I don’t want you to feel we must right away or-”

“What is it, sweetling?”

A pause. “I want to try and touch you like you were last night. Whenever you feel such desires again. I know, unlike men, women aren’t always-”

“Tonight? Now?”

“You want to?” Surprised.

“Yes.” Sinking into her lap to kiss her. “Very much so.”

“...oh.”

“Sweetling?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t overthink it. Just kiss me, and we’ll see where it goes. Ok?”

“Ok.”

Kissing. Kissing. Margaery shifting around until she’s straddling Sansa. The top of the nightgown being pushed down to bare her breasts (Sansa is no longer shy about giving them attention, much to Margaery’s relief and enjoyment) and Sansa is doing the thing that makes Margaery whine and squirm with pleasure when the lady catches her queen’s hand and draws it under the hem of her nightgown. Pressing fingers to her warm skin. 

It's soft under her fingertips, and she gently slides the pads of her fingers lower as she is fiercely kissed by the woman in her lap. Letting them trail all the way to her inner thigh, and then fully cupping the damp fabric that hides her goal elicits a full body shudder. 

It takes a while. Sansa fumbles a bit, but Margaery is already soaked and it has been long enough that even with her release the day before she is quick to reach her peak. 

Sansa can feel her quaking from inside, and its intoxicating. Reluctantly starts to with draw, and Margaery stops her. 

“No, sweetling. Please keep going.” A touch of begging.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. So good, it's....ah!”

Sansa obeys.

After the second time, Margaery stops her for the night. Suggests they both clean up and change. Sansa realizing while she cleans how aroused she is and promptly throwing up.

Still a huge turning point. 

They start truly making inroads into building a physical relationship between them. 

Signs that Winter is finally abating. 

Springtime! Margaery finally makes good on her promise to go swimming with Sansa, which in turn leads to sharing time in the hot springs. There is no doubt now just how ‘close’ the Queen and her Hand are. There are definitely ‘Hand of the Queen’ jokes being made. Margaery will reward people if they’re clever enough. Particularly bad ones are ridiculed by everyone. Sansa ignores them all. 

Trail of letters between Sansa, Brienne and the King. Sansa may even stiffly admit that her brother was right, thought he was still an ass about the whole thing. 

It is close to a year later, and they are well into summer, when there is a heavy storm. It's as good a reason as any to retire early for the evening, and Margaery and Sansa are enjoying some quality private time together when Sansa’s window flies open from the outside.

“Sister, we need to have a serious discussion about your- hey!” There’s a knife quivering in the wall next to her. 

Sansa sees Margaery holding another one. Margaery starts to yell, and finds Sansa covering her mouth.

“Arya, stop being an ass and close the window. It's pouring out.” Snapped in annoyance. “Sorry, Marge, but I’d rather not call the guards just yet.”

“Arya? As in...?”

“Yes, that Arya.” Glaring at her little sister who is unapologetically wringing out her clothes all over the Queen’s rugs by the fire. Sansa belts on a robe, then much to everyone’s surprise hugs her sister. “You could come in the front door like a normal person.”

“That’d be boring.” Holding up the dagger for Sansa. “Nice weapon. And the girl’s pretty too.”

Sansa takes it, and makes a mental note to discuss weapons in the bed with Margaery later. “Arya, this is-”

“Don’t care. I need to see you Maester and your Hand of the Queen.”

“Why?” Too stunned to even call her out on the rudeness.

“Pretty sure I’m pregnant, and I want to give you the baby to be the heir of Winterfell.”

Sansa goes to the door, and requests the maester be fetched. Margaery pulls on her own robe, and fixes her hair with a sigh.

“Yeah, I don’t think the queen will need you anymore tonight. Sorry to interrupt.” Leering just a bit.

“Well, if it's not one thing it's another.” Sweetly. “Lady Margaery, Hand of the Queen. A pleasure, Miss Stark.”

“...she’s fucking her Hand?” To Sansa. “You’re fucking your Hand?” Wide grin. “I mean, that’s one use for your Hand, but-”

“Oh, we’ve heard all the jokes already.” Margaery, smirking a bit. “And many that were more clever than that.”

Sansa just snorts and rolls her eyes. 

In the end, yes Arya is pregnant! Talk about her travels and what she’s learned thus far.

Also wants some gold, because traveling is expensive. 

Sansa is surprisingly prepared on that front. Started an account for Arya that travels well, figure out the details. 

Sansa is a little pissed Arya endangered herself and the child just to prove a point. Arya likes Margaery, who doesn’t take her shit and dishes it right back.

So, now Arya is at Winterfell as the Summer rolls on. Word of her arrival spreads, and the baby soon after. Sansa and Margaery continue their work, and Arya sometimes helps and sometimes gets in the way. A huge favorite with the kids. 

The birthing day. It's long and difficult, but in the end a squallying baby boy is pushed into the world. Followed by a girl. 

Twins. 

Figure out the names (Family names)

Things that haven’t be resolved: Selwyn and Michal. Margaery being landed. The continued prosperity and growth of the North. 

So- Margaery gets landed at some point. Names Michal her heir. 

Selwyn grows, the babies help smooth things over with Margaery. He is 12 or 13 when he finally heads home with his mother. She steps down when Pod is far enough along to become head of the Kingsguard. Michal is around 10, the twins are 4 or 5. Describe them all. 

Arya suggests a few things about her sister to help Margaery, some of it works. Including lemon cakes! 

And when the roses come again, there is a wedding in front of the Heart Tree. 

But the bed stays the same. It comes in handy when all three children pile in with them together. 

End with Margaery being interred in the crypt, surrounded by loved ones. She outlived her Queen by five years, and was Hand all save the last two. Some sort of monument erected to them. The Wolf and her Rose. Or maybe a wolf wearing a crown of roses. 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAIT A MINUTE, THIS STORY IS INCOMPLETE!
> 
> Yes, it is! It said so in the description, but sometimes those details get skipped over. If you would like further information, please continue on. If you’re done, feel free to skip to the end and leave a kudo or a comment to let me know what you thought!
> 
> SO: Why post incomplete fanfiction?
> 
> Because I am an adult with a life and responsibilities and honestly, I write fanfiction 100% for me. I decided to post what I wrote for whoever else wants to to enjoy. If you do, great! If you don’t, that isn’t really my problem. I feel less bad than you may imagine because at the very least, I give you the arc of each story. Nothing I post ends on a cliffhanger, and I’m not stringing along with promises of ‘more to come soon, fingers crossed!’ This is what it is. IF I come back to finish ANY story, it will be because something happened that inspired that. Rewatching old favorite shows or reading favorite books or whatever the case may be. Yelling at me to write more probably won’t help, but I can’t stop you from trying.
> 
> In fact, have questions? Concerns? Ideas? A burning desire to know more? Email me at impatient_panda@aol.com. 
> 
> Best Wishes, fandom hunters!
> 
> impatient_panda

**Author's Note:**

> WAIT A MINUTE, THIS STORY IS INCOMPLETE!
> 
> Yes, it is! It said so in the description, but sometimes those details get skipped over. If you would like further information, please continue on. If you’re done, feel free to skip to the end and leave a kudo or a comment to let me know what you thought!
> 
> SO: Why post incomplete fanfiction?
> 
> Because I am an adult with a life and responsibilities and honestly, I write fanfiction 100% for me. I decided to post what I wrote for whoever else wants to to enjoy. If you do, great! If you don’t, that isn’t really my problem. I feel less bad than you may imagine because at the very least, I give you the arc of each story. Nothing I post ends on a cliffhanger, and I’m not stringing along with promises of ‘more to come soon, fingers crossed!’ This is what it is. IF I come back to finish ANY story, it will be because something happened that inspired that. Rewatching old favorite shows or reading favorite books or whatever the case may be. Yelling at me to write more probably won’t help, but I can’t stop you from trying.
> 
> In fact, have questions? Concerns? Ideas? A burning desire to know more? Email me at impatient_panda@aol.com. 
> 
> Best Wishes, fandom hunters!
> 
> impatient_panda


End file.
